


Misunderstood Creatures

by SpinnersendSlytherin, ThestralHouseofBlack



Series: Blood Magic [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Addict Harry Potter, Addiction, Anxiety, Auror Ron Weasley, Death, Department of Mysteries, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Erotica, Ex-Auror Harry Potter, Generalised Anxiety Disorder, Grimmauld Place, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healer Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Mutual Pining, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Post Traumatic Growth, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Powerful Harry, Recovery, Slash, Slow Burn, Smut, Sobriety, The Forbidden Forest, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Therapy, Thestrals, Tokoloshe, Wandless Magic, grim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2019-08-27 18:46:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 167,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16708003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpinnersendSlytherin/pseuds/SpinnersendSlytherin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThestralHouseofBlack/pseuds/ThestralHouseofBlack
Summary: Reclamation. Draco and Harry find their way back.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, thank you for sticking with us and getting to part three of the blood magic trilogy! 
> 
> Please do read part one (A Half Life, A Cursed Life) and part two (The Forest) before starting this one. I don't think it'll make much sense if you start here. 
> 
> As always, please feel free to comment and leave thoughts, ideas, theories. We love hearing from readers. If you'd like to engage with us more, see what inspired us and follow our discussions on writing, drarry, recovery and mental health, please find us on tumblr with the same names. 
> 
> This work is written by two people (we're partners in real life), with SpinnersendSlytherin as Draco and ThestralHouseofBlack as Harry.
> 
> Happy reading <3
> 
> PS - Anyone keen to do fan art, please get in touch with us on tumblr! We would LOVE to see it!
> 
>  
> 
> **** Added note:
> 
> We had initially planned to write a whole section explaining the evolution of Luna and Greg's relationship, but we scrapped that in the greater plot and development of the fic, and had imagined it instead as a separate part to the blood magic series as a whole (still to be published). In order to help clarify the nature of their relationship dynamic, we would like to note that Unice is Greg's primary therapist (as he learns where to go to therapy from Draco and he recommends her), but he attends addiction focused group sessions with Luna that she moderates, but also engages with as a participant. When I imagined the group meetings, I styled them somewhat like AA/NA where a participant acts as a leader, even though they're also just a member attending the group session. Leadership may rotate within the group, and leaders aren't seen as much more than the person who chooses the topic and guides the conversation, sometimes asking prompting questions like how is everyone doing, etc. 
> 
> As it is currently written, Luna appears as though she's Greg's primary therapist as well as group leader, and we wanted to clarify that it would constitute a noncon relationship if that were the case. At the moment, without their story being published, I think it also constitutes some dubcon elements, which we had planned to discuss in their separate writing. I tried to write scenes that demonstrate that Luna, Greg and Hestia (having the most solid hold on their respective sobrieties) all give advice and support in equal measure in response to participants. As Harry progresses in his sobriety, he does as well. *Spoiler* This is also why the handover is done. 
> 
> As I said, we had planned on fleshing this out much more during the development of the plot, but our outline and story changed so drastically, we did not end up putting it in. That is our fault, and I'm very sorry. I also am deeply sorry we did not add this note sooner, so people would be aware of that element. 
> 
> I hope that clarifies things, and if you have any questions or concerns, I'd love to discuss them further!

Harry came back to himself slowly. First, he became aware of the soft and gentle rise of the warm body behind him, then the slow thudding of a heart, soft breaths slipping into the frigid morning air. He opened his eyes, blinking twice before the thin stretch of black wing laying gently above his head came into focus, the memories of the evening before trickling from the back of his hippocampus and into his conscious mind.

Draco had asked him to leave. And he had gone.

Harry pulled the wing back from above him slowly and the thestral stirred, skin shivering as it shook off the thin layer of snow that had collected over him through the night. The air beyond the wing crept over Harry and he was suddenly so incredibly thankful that this creature had known to come for him. Just known. As if in response, the gentle beast shook his heavy head, breaths still creating little clouds of steam on every stoic exhale, and turned to nudge Harry softly from his side.

It was time to go.

The sun was just now warming the depths of the deep valley, and it had to be high in the sky to clear the precipitous forest walls.

Fuck, Harry thought to himself. It must be nearly midmorning.

He stretched his legs from beneath him and stood, the thestral reaching out his giant wings away and above Harry’s form, also slipping it’s forelegs out into the snow and gingerly raising it’s skeletal form, the great slopes of his hip bones and knobs of each vertebra sliding below his coal colored skin. With one last forlorn look at Harry, the glassy eyes impassive as always, the thestral snorted softly and started off to the North, picking it’s way through the unmarked snow.

Harry watched him go, his magic swirling around him gently, warming him against the cold, replacing the comforting warmth of the winged stallion. The sun shone down a bit brighter, and Harry lifted his face to the light of the new day.

Last night.

The memories continued to trickle back, like sand running through an hourglass - images of the two of them curled around each other, the softness of Draco’s skin and the smell of his hair, freshly washed in a bath that afternoon, the comfort and the security of his bed. The bed they had shared so many nights. Together.

His hands sliding across his stomach, so close and familiar and yet, daring.

The kiss they had shared.

Harry felt a numbing tingling sensation ghost across his lips as he thought back to that moment in the dark, in the warm rush of Draco leaning down and the pull of everything they had been through together. The months of building trust of creating a place of their own to explore who they are just as much as what they wanted. What they needed. A place to reclaim themselves.

And it had led them there. To each other’s arms, to drowning in the depths of everything that Draco was. To kissing him. To kissing him like he would die if he couldn’t be with him.

But it had changed. And the thought of Draco’s vacant expression flashed before him - the automated movements, Draco’s attentions turned from him to his body.

Draco wasn’t one to rush things. He never had been. Harry had been swallowing back urges for months, afraid of the shock of that talisman. Not afraid of it, conscious of it. He always waited for Draco to initiate contact between them.

But, this time, last night, it hadn’t felt right. It had become empty and mechanical. Gone was the smoldering and consuming heat and it was replaced by something cold and suffocating. Harry had known that instant that Draco was dissociating, that it wasn’t real, that it wasn’t what he wanted.

Hell, Harry didn’t even want more than a kiss, not really. He was still scared. Scared of what to do, what to say. Scared of the future, scared of hurting Draco. Scared of loving him. Love, something he had never learned to receive without scars, nor to give without sacrifice.

He’d rejected Draco’s insistent advances, and Draco had been so… hurt. Hurt, and bitter, and so very angry. Harry scrubbed his face in his hands and pushed his hair back.

He did the right thing, in the end. Harry knew it to be true. It wasn’t time, not yet. This was just the beginning.

He steeled himself, turned on the spot and apparated back to Tenebris Hollow, his feet landing on the solid, familiar ground, the little cabin looking oddly forlorn in the winter sun.

The wards were torn. Harry felt it instantly. His magic flitting around him, searching for any source of potential danger. Instead, it was only moments before he felt the bitter traces of what had ripped them to pieces. Draco’s magic. Cold and cruel and surgical in it’s precision.

The anger was palpable, and Harry rushed to the door of their little home, opening it to see just his single box of possessions on the kitchen table. And, the bed, transformed from their bunk bed, back to a single, one that looked nothing like their own. The only hint that this cabin had been their home was the soft and gentle lingering of the encourage-mint that hung, like an unwritten apology, in the air. The Little Dipper’s perch was empty. It was strangely still. Quiet.

On the table was a scrap of parchment. Harry bolted toward it, grabbing the crisp sheet betweens shaking hands. His throat tight.

  
_Harry,_

  
_I’m sorry. I hope you can see now why this could never work between us._

  
_Work on you and your recovery. You have your whole life ahead of you. It would be easier if we didn’t contact one another._

  
_DM_

 

Harry’s heart contracted painfully in his chest, the air squeezed from his lungs as his breath stagnated in his throat.

Draco had left. He’d left angry. Without saying goodbye. This was goodbye. This pathetic string of words, hollow and sharp and exacting. He had left and he had wanted to hurt him. And he had.

A year together, a year of the careful beautiful thing they had built together. Grown together. They had nurtured and tended, with soft and stoic respect, whispered secrets in the night and the grasp of their hands, fingers laced together. A year of stolen looks over cups of tea and hours of silence that held as much meaning as a thousand letters. A year of furtive touches and their magic - their magic growing into the space between them, like beautiful, ornate lace tying them, knotting them ever closer, strands spun together like the elaborate work of a spider. A year and they had the same patronus.

Harry stood, unraveling. Unwinding himself from the traces of Draco. From the feeling of him that draped across his skin, that pulled around his very bones. It was painful, touching him, eating away at him. Like an acid that had been spilled across his viscera, it gnawed. Harry wanted it gone. He wanted it numb.

Harry felt hot tears sliding down his cheeks and the breath he was holding stuttered out of his mouth. He stood there a moment, his thoughts reeling. Panic rising.

All of that for a fucking note on a table as a goodbye. For Harry saying no - for Harry saying he wasn’t ready. His cheeks were wet as stuffed the little slip of paper with venomous words that cut him like knives deep into his pocket. He needed it to stop.

Harry spared a moment gritting his teeth and breathing deeply. Swallowing down the tears, blanking his mind, refusing to break. Not now. Not after everything. He didn’t want to be numb. Numb is not joy. Not even content. Numb is too close to death.

He would fix this. He would show Draco he could be the man who didn’t break. Who didn’t run. Who didn’t need Draco to fix him. He would take the lesson of this year and know that it was possible. What they have together was possible. And he’d just have to show Draco he could carve out space for it in the outside world. A world where Harry could forgive Draco for being so scared. A world where Harry still wanted him, still wanted to go slowly.

He took his box from the table and turned back to the door. The outside world was waiting.


	2. 400 Days of Sobriety

##  400 Days of Sobriety

February 28, 2009

The crack of apparition announced Harry’s arrival, the cold air carrying the sound out across the snowy country lane and into the fields beyond. Harry pulled his shoulders back, trying to push down the nerves that were snaking up around his middle, and stepped up to the little picket fence and white wooden gate that lay between him and the home of his two oldest and closest friends, his meagre box of belongings tucked under his arm. 

Harry took a deep breath and took in the sweet white farm house, somehow such a strange contrast to the warm and inviting world that the stone cabin had been - it looked large and imposing and oddly formal. As if he hadn’t lived here once before, in the little flat in the back. As if that was a life that belonged to someone else, and here he was, almost a stranger.

The front door snapped open and Harry looked up in time to catch Hermione’s gaze, her coat half on over a Mrs. Weasley Christmas sweater, red with a giant golden H, and her bushy hair haphazardly shoved under a nearly matching maroon wool cap. When their eyes met, she gasped, clapping her hand over her mouth and turning around. After a moment, her shoulders began shaking softly. 

“Hermione.” Harry called softly, his heart breaking as he watched her try to hide her sobs, for him, he knew. She was refusing to turn back around to spare him the sight of her crying. He pushed the gate open, set his box down on the first step and ran to her, folding her tightly into a hug, pulling her around and into his arms, her face against his chest. 

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” He said softly, holding her to him, smoothing down the errant curls of hair that escaped the bottom of her winter hat.

“Hermione!” Came a familiar voice from just inside the house.    
  
“She’s out here, Ron.” Harry called back, still rubbing gentle circles over Hermione’s back as fresh sobs continued to pour forth, her hands clutching tightly to fistfulls of Harry’s sweater, as if convinced he would disappear again should she even think of letting go. 

Ron, tall and red haired as ever, opened the front door with a jaunty smile on his face, one that instantly warmed Harry’s heart. 

“Welcome home then, Harry!” Ron said, folding the both of them into an even grander hug, clapping Harry on the shoulder and ruffling the purple hat he still had on over his even-more-unkempt-than-usual hair.    
  
“Can you tell we missed you?” Ron said, still smiling and gazing lovingly down at Hermione, who had finally started to detach herself from Harry.    
  
“I missed you both, too.” Harry said, full of the love and warmth his friends exuded for him. They loved him, and he could feel it. The air was thick with it. His magic could feel it, and it was flowing around them, softly reacquainting itself with something so familiar, so much a part of himself. 

“Come on then, let’s get out of the cold at least. Rose will want a hello too, you know.” Ron said beckoning them both through the front door and into the warmth of their home, grabbing Harry’s box from the stoop and carrying it inside. 

And it was as though he had never left. They were kind and soft and Hermione’s eyes filled with tears whenever she looked over at him, and he held her hand while she showed him up to Rose’s room to say hello, and Rose held her little arms out to him to be picked up like Harry had just put her down for her nap an hour ago. And so, he carried her back down to the living room, where she was sound asleep against his shoulder before long. 

And then it was late afternoon, long after Little Dipper had swooped in the kitchen window and stolen several treats from Pigwidgeon, to much riotous laughter and general amusement. And then they were sitting together in the living room, and Harry’s throat was suddenly tight and his mouth was going dry, because it was time. It was time to tell them. Gone was the rush of happiness of having him back, seeing he was ok, seeing he was alive. 

Ron had just finished updating him on the Quidditch he had missed, and Hermione was busy making jokes about Rose’s new words (Hermione was very proud her vocabulary was now at an impressive 35 words). And then there was a lull, and they were both looking at him. Harry shifted and handed Rose over to Ron, who barely stirred as she adopted the exact same slumped sleeping posture over her father’s shoulder. 

“I know you probably have a lot of questions about where I’ve been.” Harry started, looking down at his hands in his lap, trying to concentrate on keeping them still. His fingers were calloused from all of the wood he had carved, roughened from life in the forest. He took a deep breath, rubbing away the lines his nails had made across his palms from clenched fists, fraught with nerves, tight with the threat of the truth. They loved him. They wouldn’t blame him or think less of him. It was going to be okay. 

“You don’t have to tell us… Harry you look so much happier and healthier. It shocked me, really. I had forgotten how bad you looked. But now, Harry you look like yourself again.” Hermione started, her voice small and careful. Ron gave her a pointed look, the first hint of anything but joy on his face since Harry had arrived. Ron wanted to know why he left. He deserved to know. They both did. They had to know. This was not the time for easy lies. This was not the moment for excuses. 

“Hermione. Don’t do that. Don’t give me an out. I need to be accountable. I have things I need to tell you because I have things I need you to understand about who I am and my life going forward. Telling you is a way for me stop hiding.” He paused, closing his eyes for a second. “I just needed you to see that I’m fine. I’ve spent the last year getting better. Getting healthier. Trying to redefine what I want my life to look like. And yeah, that may reflect on how I look now, but I need honesty to stay this way. To stay alive.” 

He opened his eyes to see Hermione, tears slowly rolling down her cheeks, and Ron, his face dark over Rose’s slack shoulder, but full of concern, not anger. They waited, and Harry steeled himself against the quiet of their living room, scattered with children’s toys and piles of books. Against the normalcy of their life. 

“I died. Again.” He said, his voice low and serious and the words surprising him. He had thought he would start out with how bad things were and his magic getting out of control, and then that had just slipped out. Because, well, it was true. That’s how serious this was. He had died.   
  
“I did it on purpose.” He said, looking down at his hands again, renewed rubbing against the lines of his palms, listening to Hermione’s sharp intake of breath. He could feel Ron tense from the other side of the room. He couldn’t bring himself to look up. Not yet.  

“I was brought back. Even though I didn’t want to be. I really meant to be gone. I was convinced it was the only way.” The words were tumbling out of his mouth in a rhythm of their own. He was so far off script, he wasn’t sure how to continue. But this felt the most pressing. They needed to know just how bad it was. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? Harry… you know I… I would have done anything to help. Harry, after everything. After George…” Ron was hurt, his voice strained, Rose was making small noises of protest and Harry imagined it was because Ron was holding her so tightly. 

Harry dropped his head into his hands. “I couldn’t Ron. I couldn’t.” 

He took a deep breath, lifting his gaze to meet Ron’s, startled by the tears forming in them, and the look of absolute fear that hung, heavy on his features. 

“I’m a drug addict, Ron. I was using drugs. Every day. All day, really. I was stuck in this horrible cycle and I couldn’t see a way out and Rose was just born and I couldn’t put you two through dealing with it. So, I just thought it would be easier. Safer.” He looked away, full of shame. Sickening, burning and nauseating shame. 

Harry wanted to claw at his throat. He wanted to obliviate himself and the two of them and run. He wanted to give up and hide in the forest, even if it meant never seeing another person again. 

“Oh, Harry.” And Hermione was there, next to him, hugging him tightly, crying harder than ever. And Ron was at his other side, draping his arm around him, his cheeks wet and worry lines across his face. 

“You could have told me, Harry. But, I’m glad you did now.” Ron said, his voice thick with emotion. “Nothing is worse than losing you. Nothing.” 

And Harry sat there, the fear and anxiety of telling them giving way to the slow and gentle relief of both of them at his side, of their love. 

“So,” Harry started again, trying to get out all of the important details at once. “So, I don’t drink anymore. I’d appreciate not being around people who aren’t sober. I’ve been off drugs for a year but I’m not going to pretend that it isn’t still a struggle. Especially when I’m stressed or upset or … yeah. Just, please. I don’t mean to be a burden, I just want to stay healthy. I don’t want to go back. It took me a long time, but I want to live. I want a life I want to live. I don’t want to be dangerous.” 

He took a deep breath, and started as Hermione stood up and marched off in the direction of their kitchen, staring after her. He hadn’t upset her, had he? He didn’t mean to be such a bother, coming to their house and asking them to change their ways. 

Ron ruffled his hat again, also getting up and letting Rose stay asleep curled up on the sofa. 

“Great idea, love.” He called after Hermione. 

Harry stared after them, completely confused. Standing slowly and following them, he heard sounds of cupboards opening and the sink running.  

  
He peeked around the doorway to the kitchen and his mouth fell open, his heart straining against his chest. Hermione had grabbed the two bottles of wine that were in the top cupboards and was emptying them into the skink. Ron was standing next to her, systematically emptying several bottles of beer. His favorite brand, Harry remembered. 

It was such a startling act of solidarity. Of acceptance. It warmed Harry, immensely, his nose burning and his eyes going bright and filling with the tears that had been threatening all day. 

“Is there somewhere you’d prefer to meet in place of the pub on Fridays?” Ron asked over his shoulder, his jaunty grin back, though his eyes were still wet and the worry lines had not disappeared.    
  
“Oh.” Harry said, his brow furrowing, rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses. He didn’t feel ready to see all of the old gang. Or anyone, really. He didn’t want to rush. Just Ron and Hermione felt like a lot at the moment. 

“I think Fridays I’ll go to meetings.” Harry said softly, looking down at his feet. “And Mondays. And Wednesdays. If it gets bad I might go every day.” 

He felt small in that moment, admitting how bad things were. How scared he was that the cravings, the thoughts, the urges would be more than he could handle. Especially now, without Draco. His heart stuttered in his chest at the thought of Draco. Push it down, he thought, not now. I can’t think about him. Not now. 

“Whatever you need, Harry.” Hermione said, turning around and wiping her hands on the dishcloth by the sink. “Anything. And no more secrets. If you need to tell us things to stay accountable, tell us. What else can we do to make this a supportive home for you?” 

“I have more to tell you, just not tonight. I need some time to get used to this.” Harry said, his magic smoldering quietly and warming him, comforting him. The ache wasn’t gone from his chest, but he pushed on, thinking of all of the steps he needed to get through to prove to Draco that he was ready. That he could do this. That they could be together, even here, in the outside world, where it was all unknown and scary. But, more importantly, all of the steps he needed to get through just to prove to himself that he was going to live. That he wasn’t dangerous. That he could love, even his friends, safely and carefully and with all of the gentleness they deserved. 

“You’re the first people I’ve told, really told about what was going on. And I’m so appreciative of you both. I just, I need to get into a rhythm of normal here, and then I can do more.” Harry smiled, his voice thick and gravelly, and Ron pulled him into another hug. 

“Take your time, Harry.” Ron’s voice was equally rough and kind and Harry didn’t struggle to remember that even without red hair and freckles, he was his brother. For their lives had been knitted together since their first shared sandwich on the train, to here and now. And, it was true what Ron had said the autumn before, Harry was off fighting battles he was too scared to tell them about. But, it was just as true what they had always told him, in the days before the war, that they would always be there, and no matter what evil. That he would need them, and they would be there. 

“Mommy!” Came Rose’s sleepy voice from the living room. “Dinner time.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“She’s not wrong.” Said Ron, raising an eyebrow, ruffling Harry’s hat once more. “I’ll start on pasta. Harry, can you set the table? If we don’t get ourselves together quickly it’ll be a full blown tantrum.” 

And just like that, they went about their evening, eating together and laughing at Rose’s wildly demanding demeanor. She was a perfect combination of Hermione’s insistence and Ron’s defiance. Harry loved her instantly. 

Harry only let his thoughts drift back to Draco as he cleared dishes. Draco would be proud of him, he thought. He’d give him that look, the one where he’s smug but there’s that softness, where he was reveling in Harry’s triumphs, as if he had known Harry would succeed all along. 

And when he crawled into bed, the guest bedroom for tonight, he imagined Draco lying next to him, his blonde hair all disheveled and his guard down, all of their walls crumbled and all of their secrets strewn between them, dissolving into the folds of the sheets, irrelevant in the wake of their honesty. And how he missed the little sighs Draco would make as Harry would curl around him, fingertips tracing the smooth and rough of his once forbidden skin.    
  
He pulled a little bit of parchment and a self inking quill toward him and scribbled out a horridly untidy note, but one he felt he had to write. Draco had to know he was okay, and that things were going to be alright. It would be cruel to be silent - even though he had said not to contact him.    
  
_ Draco,  _

_ It's ok, I understand. I know, you thought I was rejecting you and it hurt. You panicked. I saw it in your face. But, you don't owe me sex to keep me around. You don't owe me anything. I wasn't ready. I'm still not, to be honest. I left because I was hurt, too.  And scared. And, I’m not shy to admit that to you. _

_ It's ok if you need space to recollect yourself. It's ok. I'm going to take this time to show you that I'm capable of handling the outside world. That I don't need you to carry me through recovery. That I can do it. I'm not your responsibility, and you don't have to worry about keeping me alive or keeping me safe. It was an unfair burden to push on you, and I'm sorry.  _

_ I will give you this space Draco, I will because I respect you and your process. You have things you'll need to work out, too. And, when you do, I'll be here. Ready to pick up where we left off. Because I also know that you will be with me, in my thoughts, every day and every night until we see each other again.  _

_ Our year in the forest was the best of my life, and I will look back on it with nothing but immense fondness for the things that you showed me. For what you nurtured in me. For the honesty of what we had together.  _

_ You're not broken or damaged Draco, you're beautiful and smart and kind and you deserve happiness. More than happiness. Joy. You deserve to have the sun shine on you every day and fill you to the brim until you are overflowing with the golden liquid light, because that is what you are, decadent and extraordinary. _

_ But, until then, find your wings and strengthen them. I will be here, waiting.  _

_ Yours, _

_ \- Harry _

  
He doodled a bit on the other side of the parchment, a little thestral. He smiled, but his heart was aching. He wanted Draco to hold the parchment, to see his words but feel him. His magic threaded itself into the page, animating the little winged beast and charming it to fly around both sides of the page. Harry held it to his chest a moment, eyes closed and breathing deeply, concentrating on sending a bit of himself with the letter, like he would his patronus.    
  
He opened his eyes as Little Dipper fluttered in through the open window, his gigantic ear tufts swivelling this way and that, a single hoot as he held his leg out for Harry to attach the parchment.    
  
“You miss him too, don’t you? That’s why you’re so keen for a delivery. Be nice to him, I’m sure he’s not going to be happy to see you. Don’t let it discourage you. He’s hurting.” Harry said, letting the funny little owl nibble at his fingers affectionately. Once he was done fixing the note securely to him, he took flight and ghosted silently back out into the night. 

“I’m doing it, Draco. One day down.” Harry said softly into the dark of the room, and sleep overtook him. 

He dreamt of thestrals in the forest, wild and free. 

_____________________

On Friday morning, five days after his arrival, he awoke, and an assortment of words peppered his half broken thoughts, leftover strands of dreams and memories. The world isn’t split into good people and death eaters. And it was after that particularly vicious night of cravings, sweating and twisting in his sheets, that the words changed, nearly without Harry’s permission, into something else. Something that left a coppery taste on his tongue. The world isn’t split between good people and drug addicts. 

And it was okay. And he could be both. 

He talked about it later, in his third meeting of the week. When Luna went around the circle and asked the attendees (nine of them in total) to share their recent thoughts on recovery. She had smiled at him, and a few of the others had nodded in agreement. One of the muggles had laughed and said he hadn’t stopped thinking of himself as a bad person, not since he’d stolen the last of his parent’s savings and used it to buy a night of mindlessness. They’d all shared the wicked things they’d done.  

Harry had squirmed and sweat in his seat, dripping down his back and been entirely uncomfortable the first few meetings - which is probably why he couldn’t remember anyone’s names or much of what they had talked about - or even who had been magical and who was muggle. It was all a blur, really. Luna had simply asked him to introduce himself and gone over the ground rules - always anonymity, always honesty and always respect. Harry had felt her nearly invisible charm work go around the room, enforcing the first of the conditions, and he had breathed easy knowing that his secrets would be safe. 

Greg had done him the absolute favour of pretending they didn’t know each other, which was to Harry’s great relief. He seemed so far along in his recovery, comfortable in his skin, talking freely and openly about the complex struggles of the boredom of the work, of the ubiquity of drinking, the ever present marketing of alcohol. Of how tiring it gets to be conscious and careful every day, disappointed and overlooked. He talked about struggles that Harry wished he had, because he was too overcome by the ringing in his ears and the adrenalin seizing his stomach. How nice it will be to be bored, he had thought. 

It was so hard to listen to others talk about using drugs. About their experiences. About the things they thought and felt. About the way they drooled around certain words and held their breath after others. It made him feel like his flesh was desperately seeking a way out of his skin, and by the end of the first meeting, he’d pulled Luna aside and told her he couldn’t do it.    
  
She had patted him on the arm, said of course he could and she’d see him on Wednesday, and that was that. Harry had gone home and written Draco another letter.    
  
_ Did you see Mars is bright again tonight? Perhaps it is for our battles after all.  _ __  
_ No matter, I am ready.  _ __  
  


_ \- Harry _   
  
He’d gone back to the meetings, of course, and he’d been slightly less visibly disturbed, but it had exhausted him to the core. By that Friday, he had spoken for the first time to share his morning revelation. The world isn’t split between good people and drug addicts. He had sweat just a little bit less. 


	3. Fairy Tales Aren't Real

Fairy Tales Aren’t Real  
March 3, 2009

Draco gazed with bleary eyes through the dim light of his bedroom. The air was stale and his bed smelled of dust, evidence of his long absence apparent in the lack of personal effects in his once comfortable bedroom. From the other side of the drawn shades he could hear the relentless tap, tap, tapping of an owl. 

It had been three days since he left the hollow. Three days and he had barely left his bed since stumbling into it upon his arrival, leaving his things still packed in the bag on the floor. He chose instead to hide away from the world under his duvet and subsist on stale crackers from the kitchen when he forced himself out of bed. He was fucking miserable. 

He continued to ignore the tapping, choosing instead to entertain his internal boggart, who, as it turns out, was insisting that Harry had told everyone all about their… je ne sais quoi... and now all of his friends hated him and the world would be an even more unbearable place. He questioned all of his life decisions on a never ending loop of self flagellation and deprecation, his mind slowly torturing him into what felt like madness. 

Even the involuntary act of breathing felt as if it was too much work. He laid there staring at the ceiling, listening to the incessant tapping, and fantasised about starving to death. 

He knew this wasn’t healthy. He knew he was being entirely self-indulgent in his misery. Knew he should speak to someone. Owl a friend, or probably more importantly, Beatrice, but he just couldn’t face anyone. Couldn’t face their sympathy, their pity, their… disgust. 

The tapping grew louder, and he absently wondered if the owl was under orders to try and break in. He had chased off Little Dipper twice since arriving home, and even Luna’s owl once. He had missed lunch with her the previous day without an explanation and he couldn’t bear to see what Harry had written him. To see his handwriting trace words of hatred, because surely, after the way Draco had behaved, Harry hated him. 

A sudden, loud banging jerked him from his stupor and he jolted upright. He had warded his flat to hell and back against any visitors, so, who the fuck had managed to get to his door? His first thought was of Harry, who was certainly powerful enough to get through Draco’s wards, but he didn’t think he’d know where to find Draco, as he had been nearly dead when Draco had first brought him there. 

“Draco, I know you’re in there!” called a dreamy voice that carried through his apartment from beyond the front door. 

Draco froze at the sound of Luna’s voice, feeling like a trapped animal. His joints creaked in protest as he crawled out of his den of blankets and shuffled towards to the door. He was not prepared to face anyone in his condition, let alone Luna and her knowing eyes. 

“Luna, I’m sick.” He lied with a cracked voice standing before his front door, his heart in his throat. 

“Good thing I brought soup, then.” she replied and he could hear the smile in her voice. He rested his head on the door and listened to the endless tapping on the window from his bedroom. What was this hell? Couldn’t she let him wallow in peace?

He had the overwhelming urge to cry and didn’t respond. Surely, Luna knew and that’s why she was here. As if performing advanced ligillimens, Luna said in a soft voice, “Draco, I won’t make you talk about anything you don’t want to.” He felt his resistance cracking as she continued. “Just let me in so I can love my friend, whom I haven’t seen in a year.” 

Draco’s fight bled out of him and he unlocked the door. It slowly creaked open to reveal a radiant Luna dressed in layers of mismatched fabric. If Draco looked as bad as he felt, she didn’t let on. She just smiled warmly and hugged him tight before picking up two large grocery bags from the floor and walking in. 

Draco sniffed and wiped the unbidden tears that threatened to spill over as Luna moved towards the kitchen with an easy gait. She had never been to Draco’s flat before, but she seemed to know how to get around.

“How did you get through my wards?” Draco asked, his voice low and hoarse. He certainly sounded ill. 

Luna was unpacking her bags and setting up a tea tray as she answered thoughtfully, “Draco, I work with recovering addicts who sometimes need someone to break through their wards to help them. I’m rather gifted at dismantling protective enchantments.” 

“Oh.” was all Draco managed in response. He supposed that made sense. 

After she assembled the tea, Luna shuffled Draco towards his couch and settled him in before leaving him to begin cleaning. Draco felt embarrassed, but knew it was best to allow Luna to do what she came to do, which was to, apparently, care for the giant man child Draco had devolved into. She vanished the layers of dust coating everything, shook out the carpets, fluffed the cushions, opened the curtains, and, before Draco could stop her, opened the window to retrieve the letters from Little Dipper. She made no comment or sign of recognition as she placed the letters on Draco’s desk and continued her cleaning. 

Draco sat in a heap on his couch, knees drawn up under his chin as he hugged himself and tried not to cry. Before long, Luna was re emerging from the kitchen, the smell of encourage-mint following in her wake. A smell that had once soothed him, but now called forth tears with alarming speed. Luna carried her tray ladened with the aforementioned soup, as well as sandwiches, and what looked like a bottle of calming draught. After settling the tray in front of them on the table she settled in, perfectly content to sit in silence with Draco as she waited for him to make a move for the food. 

Instead, Draco let go of his knees to sit cross legged. He looked down at his hands, feeling his lip tremble, his vision blurring with unshed tears. Luna reached out and pulled him into a hug. She smelled so familiar and so safe. And he ached with how much he had missed her without having realising it. He didn’t know how long he cried onto her shoulder, but his sobs eventually subsided and he found himself laying in her lap, her fingers running through his hair, a soothing comfort. This is why he loved Luna, Draco thought dazedly, she had no expectations, only love and empathy. 

“Thank you.” He whispered into her skirt covered leg. He felt lost. 

“What are friends for, Draco?” she asked. He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t feel like he had been a very good friend to her. “But, if you really want to thank me, you’d eat something.”

He sighed and nodded, finally righting himself. Luna smiled and combed her fingers through his hair again, trying to tame it into something less embarrassing, he supposed. “There we go.” She said, patting his cheek. “Much better.”

Draco huffed an involuntary grunt of disbelief and Luna’s smile grew even wider. “There you are.” She teased gently. 

He couldn’t stop the weak smile forming on his face, feeling odd and foreign, as if he had never smiled before. He picked up his bowl of soup off the coffee table and began to eat while Luna chatted about whatever seemed to float into her mind. She talked about her relationship with Greg, about work, about her proposal to St. Mungo’s for opening an addiction counseling and withdrawal service, about her new favorite ice cream shop, the latest sighting of snorkacks, and, of course, her latest spinning project. 

He was so grateful that she didn’t expect him to participate in the conversation. He just enjoyed her company and soft voice as he allowed his forgotten hunger to finally be attended to. 

Just as Draco finished the last of his soup, Luna announced, “Alright then, I think it’s time I run you a bath, then we unpack your things before making a care plan. Yes?”

Draco considered protesting for a fleeting moment, feeling nettled, but he heard the bite of pragmatism in her voice and remembered that he had been acting like a lost child for days, and knew better than to argue. He nodded and allowed Luna to pull him up off the couch and towards the bathroom.

April 5, 2009

Draco wanted to burn this god forsaken hospital to the ground. He wanted to chase out every healer with a god complex while brandishing a pitchfork. He wanted to light himself on fire, for Merlin’s sake! 

Coming back to St. Mungo’s had been a huge mistake, he thought bitterly to himself as he strolled through the too familiar and suffocating halls back to his office. Sprigg hadn’t changed one bit in the last year, and it seemed no one around him was aware that everything had changed for Draco. Draco felt completely separated from his surroundings and the others in it. His usually easy conversations with Unice were stilted and full of sympathetic sighs, which made Draco want to puke. He didn’t want anyone’s sympathy, he just wanted to be left alone. 

He hadn’t told anyone what had happened over the last year, except for Beatrice, who was encouraging him to talk to his friends about it. He point blank refused. No, sir, he was not about to talk to anyone about anything. 

Stepping into his office he felt the ice in his heart melt slightly at the sight of a familiar looking parcel on his desk. Luna had been regularly sending him meals at work and at home, even when he made excuses not to see her. She had not pried once into what had happened to him, but Draco suspected Harry had told her. He felt he didn’t deserve her help or her affection. 

He sat down at his desk and pushed the parcel of food off of his desktop calendar to peer at his month. He was seeing Beatrice three times per week, as per Luna’s encouragement and Beatrice’s insistence. Beatrice was worried about his inability to feed himself when he was feeling like this, and he knew she had a point. Perhaps, he too should be worried about it, but instead he only acknowledged it with a detached resignation. 

He was also meeting with Hermione at the DoM next week, a fact that made him push the fragrant food in front of him even further away, lest he dry heave bile all over his desk. How was he meant to work with Harry’s best friend, one who most definitely knew about how much of a monster Draco had been, and who would probably make his life a living hell? 

And, finally, he was meeting with Neville and Luna this evening for dinner, even though he would rather wallow at home in the dark.

He also had meetings lined up with the St. Mungo’s research department where he anticipated he would have to defend his integrity, instead of actually disseminating information. 

Draco felt an overwhelming wave of crippling apathy wash over him and he placed his forehead on his desk, thumping it down harder than he meant to, but not bothering to do anything more than grunt. His limbs felt too heavy, his head felt too light, and breathing still felt like a fucking chore. 

Reaching into his pocket he let his fingers idly play with the frayed corner of folded parchment that had taken permanent residence on his person over the last month. It wasn’t a brightly coloured piece of hope that he was so accustomed to, but rather the two letters that Potter had sent him when he had first arrived home. The letters simultaneously comforted Draco, and tortured him. They made him furious and weak. They fuelled his boggart and his depression, and he didn’t want to think about why he couldn’t throw them away. 

The letters had been so nice. So understanding. Forgiving, even. They made Draco want to scream. Didn’t he know that Draco was a fucking wreck? That he was too damaged? Too broken? That he couldn’t be trusted with the responsibility of someone’s affections? That he would always end up hurting Harry, in the end? That he didn’t deserve Harry’s forgiveness or understanding?

He never wrote a response. And, while he had read and reread the letters a dozen times when he finally gathered the strength to open them, after he had folded them and put them in his pocket and hadn’t opened them again. There they sat against the little innocuous talisman that he kept telling himself he would throw away. 

_____________

Later that evening, after another appointment with his therapist, Draco apparated to Neville’s place for dinner. He was at the top floor of a muggle apartment building with a broken elevator. Draco had apparated directly to the 13th floor landing, as Neville was the only tenant on the floor. It was a vast open loft, half of which was a remodelled greenhouse with glass panels in the ceiling and walls, overlooking the little neighbourhood below. It was like being in an indoor jungle, and the smell of soil and moist earth made Draco ache with missing the forest, his garden, with missing Harry. 

Stepping inside, he saw Luna and Greg sitting at kitchen island to the left, nibbling on snacks while Neville danced around his kitchen preparing dinner. There were hanging baskets of herbs dangling from the pot rack and potted plants fixed to the available wall space around the window above the sink. 

“Draco!” Neville yelled in greeting when he looked up from his chopping board, sending carrots flying in all directions. “Oh, damn!” 

Draco huffed a laugh of affectionate exasperation in his “hullo.” Neville was just as clumsy as ever, his fond adoration of Neville cutting through his haze of macabre disinterest for a shining moment. Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be so bad. Feeling less heavy than he had since coming home, he made his way over to a Neville, who was crawling around the kitchen after rolling carrot pieces, to give him a hand. 

After spelling the mess away and giving everyone a proper hello, he was put to work chopping the vegetables so Neville could continue enthusiastically explaining his plans for moving forward with his greenhouse business. 

He was relieved not to be expected to participate in the conversation aside from vapid ‘mhmms’ and ‘ahhs’, and was particularly grateful that he had something to do with his hands. The kitchen was pleasantly warm and softly lit by the setting sun streaming in through the misted windows. He let the calm chatter and fragrant air wrap around him like a blanket as he went through the process of preparing dinner.

“He’s not even listening, is he?” 

Draco startled as he realised he had been so caught up in remember what it was like to make dinner with Harry dancing around him that he had completely disengaged from the conversation going on around him.

“Sorry?” He asked apologetically, looking up from the cutting board to see 6 eyes curiously trained on him. 

Greg grunted a smile, “Must be weird having to be around other people again, huh?”

“Yeah, I ‘spose it’ll take some getting used to being back in the land of the living instead of by yourself in the forest now, won’t it?” Neville mused. 

Draco had just opened his mouth, trying to figure out how to respond when Luna chimed in, “Oh but haven’t you two noticed how few nargles Draco has since he’s been back? He definitely wasn’t alone that whole time.” She smiled serenely at Draco while his face morphed into one of beseeching horror. She wasn’t going to out him, was she?

“Wha- I- Luna!” Draco sputtered. 

“No denial, I see.” Smirked Neville, good-naturedly. 

Draco’s eyes snapped to Neville’s feeling utterly lost in the proceedings. They couldn’t possibly know, could they?

“I don’t want to talk about it.” he stated emphatically as he dropped his eyes back to the cutting board and resumed his chopping. 

When no one responded, he glanced up to see the three of them exchanging worried looks that held an entire silent conversation. 

Neville cleared his throat and broke the moment, “Tell us about the thestrals Draco, we’ve been dying to know more about what you’ll be doing with the DoM.”

Draco sighed, grateful to his friends for not pushing despite the clear concern writ large across their faces. Work he could talk about. 

Hours later after much food, of which Luna ensured he had at least seconds of everything, and homemade cordial, Draco found himself standing on Neville’s balcony alone with Greg. Staring out at the bright cityscape with Greg’s solid presence by his side, Draco felt at ease for a moment. The constant ache caused by Harry’s absence seem to soften as he took deep breaths of crisp air and grounded himself. 

The moment was short lived however, for Greg soon broke the silence, “Draco,” he said awkwardly, “I know you don’t want to talk about it, and that’s fine and all, but it’s really obvious something is very wrong.”

Draco felt frozen in place, unsure of how to respond. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the next, eyes fixed ahead on the skyline of high rises. 

“All I want to say,” Greg pushed on, an air of being completely out of his depths, “is that you were there for me to point out when things were bad and when I needed help, and without that I wouldn’t be here now, and so now I’m here to return the favour. Whatever this is, that has you this tied up, isn’t good and you need to talk to someone about it.” 

Releasing a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he finally chanced a glance at Greg and saw nothing but empathy in his large eyes. “I am talking about it to someone.” He all but whispered. 

“And? Is it helping?” 

Draco shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

“You know you can talk to us about it, right? We’re not going to judge you, we’re your friends and we love you. Whatever it is, I’m sure we can handle it.”

“He’s right, Draco. You can talk to us.” Neville’s voice sounded softly from the shadows behind him. Luna and Neville seem to have snuck up on them without Draco realising. 

Draco was starting to feel like a cornered animal. Luna must have noticed because she spoke next, “Draco, this isn’t an intervention,” she smiled softly. “We just want you to know we’re here for you, and when you’re ready to talk about it we’ll be ready to listen.”  
Draco forced himself to look up and face them. “Thank you, really,” he pushed out, fidgeting with the talisman in his pocket. “I’m just not ready for anyone to know yet.”

“That’s alright mate- AHH!” Greg had reached out to squeeze Draco’s shoulder, but recoiled sharply upon contact, shaking his hand and grasping it as if burnt.

Everyone had jumped and stared in wide eyed confusion at Draco, who blushed furiously. 

“Oh, gods Greg, I’m so sorry!”

“What was that?!” Greg yelped, still looking shocked and slightly offended, inspecting his hand for the offending wound.

Draco pulled his shaking hand out of his pocket to reveal the talisman Harry had so expertly carved for him. “It was a gift from-” he said quietly. “A gift from someone to make sure no one could touch me when I didn’t want to be.” He huffed an awkward laugh. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about it.”

Greg’s look of indignation melted into one of sympathy and sheepishness. “I’m sorry Draco, I shouldn’t have touched you without asking, especially after we kind of cornered you.”

“Draco, that’s an incredible piece of magic you’re carrying around in your pocket. Who made it for you?” Neville asked, his look of shock having also been replaced by one of impressed curiosity.

“I can’t tell you.” Draco said sadly. “Really, thank you all for your support and concern, but I’m not ready to divulge the details of my last year. I’m still processing it for myself.”

“Well, whoever made you that must care very deeply for you. That’s a very thoughtful token.” Luna said dreamily. 

“Mmm.” Draco murmured, not so much in agreement, but in acknowledgement. It was still too painful to think that Harry might care about him after everything that had happened. 

“Well, we won’t push you anymore tonight Draco if you say you’re getting the help you need and that you’re not ready for us to know. But, please remember that we care and that this is a safe space for you. Whenever you need us.”

Draco was at a loss for words. How could he express his deep gratitude for his friends? 

He took a deep breath, letting the love of everyone gathered wash over him and saying what he needed before he lost his nerve, “I think- I think I’d like a hug now… please.” 

Without another word, and without fear of Draco’s talisman, the three of them moved forward and enveloped him in a comforting embrace. 

And he thought maybe he’d be okay one day.


	4. Number 12

##  Number 12

March 18, 2009 

On the 18th, Harry marked one year sober. He woke up quickly, pulled from a dream that ached of nights in Tenebris Hollow, that was steeped in the smells and the sounds of the forest. Harry blinked the sleep away, staring up at the thickly painted, white panel ceiling of Ron and Hermione’s guest bedroom, which was rapidly replacing visions of the hanging herbs above his top bunk, lavender, yellow dock and thyme, brittle and fragrant. The tremolo of the loon was just as quickly fading in his early morning thoughts, the frogs stilling on their waving pond reeds while the calls of jays faded in the distance. 

In their places came the sounds of Ron frying up eggs and bacon in the kitchen, singing his breakfast song to Rose, who could be heard laughing and giggling, slapping her hands on the table with squeals of delight, probably flinging bits of egg about the place. Hermione would be at work already. 

Harry sighed, breathing in deeply, the smell of a proper English in the Granger Weasley’s country home quickly erasing the soft smell of their garden in early bloom, of the forest waking under a wavering spring sun. Of tea each morning with Draco. 

While his heart ached pitifully for the latter, he was immensely comforted by the former. The past month had been nothing but gentle encouragement, honest communication and compassion. The absolute steadying comfort of routine. He had no complaints, not really. 

In the mornings, he hung out with Rose, read to her and took her on walks, talked to her about things that were troubling him. Occasionally, he pulled her down their isolated country lane in an ancient red wagon, waxing poetic about things she certainly, definitely, absolutely did not understand, and were almost certainly never ever about a certain blonde who hadn’t responded to a single letter Harry had written. The git. 

Rose would clap her pudgy hands and sometimes cry, occasionally yelling one of her now 37 words. Harry didn’t mind, because her smile and joy at the world around her was enough to quell the darkness that often curled up around his feet, licking at his calves and pawing at his new sense of balance. She had helped him, even without knowing it, keep the dread at bay. He felt responsible and capable with her. She gave him a sense that he could be trusted, and he could make good choices, even if it was just for a few hours in the mornings while her parents were busy at work. 

He had been going to afternoon meeting three times a week, slowly opening up more and more to the other group members, meeting with Luna in solo therapy sessions in between. He was doing the work. He really was. 

Yesterday’s meeting he had talked about what living when his loved ones died had done to him. He had told the silent room of watchful eyes what it felt like to be left behind. He told them how often he had, over decades of his life, thought of what he could say to his parents, how he had imagined their kind and gentle words of love. How they might have cherished him, filled with pride at his accomplishments, and offered comfort when he was met with the trials and tribulations of his youth. How he lost his godfather, and then his mentor, and a beloved teacher, and a friend. And then more friends. And slowly death had piled up around him, consumed him. 

One of the muggle attendees, Sylvia, had offered up the idea that because he had spent his whole life imagining the dead, it had become easier for Harry to accept that he could join them. That he could find peace and happiness there. That death was truly rest from the loneliness and pain of life. 

She had said she felt the very same way after her fiance had overdosed in bed next to her, just a few months before. Her face had hardened, and her voice became sharp, her breath quick and cutting. How dare he have rest and freedom from pain, she had said, eyes glued to the floor in the space between them, on Luna’s ornate blue oriental rug, edged with blooming lilies and climbing vines. How dare he leave her to carry all of the loneliness and the suffocating reality of recovery alone, and her voice was accusatory, still aimed at the ancient threads snaking across the wide timber floorboards. How dare he leave her stuck in all of the bitterness and anger, and her gaze snapped up to meet Harry’s. And Harry had felt her absolute rage seep into their circle, poisonous and powerful, crackling with a ferocity that he thought only magic could produce. 

But, before he could recoil, it was Greg who reached up to grab her hand, and with his soft and steady voice remind her that she was not alone, not in pain or in grief, not in hardship nor fear of failure. He met her rage with quiet understanding, acceptance and the gentle acknowledgement that she may have lost much, but she is also not incapable of regaining much. He spoke softly to her about the rewards of a life well tended and safely kept. A life where rest and joy and peace is possible, and so very often worth the absolute hardship of wrestling it from our own demons. And Harry had felt the rage slip away into grief. 

“If all you can do is crawl, start crawling” Luna intoned into the silent circle, Sylvia’s grief like a glass pool in their midst. She often closed the meeting, now nearly always with the same familiar nine attendees, with odd quotes or sayings for the listeners to mull over, but this one was the first to hit Harry so clearly and profoundly - for it was just like her, and it was painfully good advice. It was, in those early days, the only advice. 

Across from him, Hestia was rolling a bit of paper between her fingers, her black nails long and threatening, but her touch left no creases. She was another longtime member of Luna’s meetings, one of only four magical people not including himself. Harry had thought she had said she was several years sober from dreamless sleep, but he had avoided speaking to her too much, as she was another face he had recognised from Hogwarts, a Slytherin he had thought. Perhaps from the Slug Club. Thankfully, she had followed Greg’s lead and pretended to be none the wiser as to Harry’s identity and infamy, nor the fact that he’d been presumed missing for the past year and been all over the Daily Prophet. He had grown very fond of her as the meetings wore on. 

It was well into his second month of group meetings that Harry had met the third wizard, ducking in from a virulent and unusually cold rainstorm outside Luna’s plant-covered patio and shaking himself off haphazardly. He had stumbled into the living room and plopped down on a chair, his countenance taking Harry’s breath and trapping it in his throat. Dennis Creevey had looked back up at him, a moment of shock on his face, before deftly extending his hand. 

“Dennis,” he said softly, smiling at Harry. “I’m an old hat here, just fresh off a relapse though, I’m afraid.” 

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Harry said, his voice faltering slightly. “I’m Harry.” 

“Glad you found Luna’s meetings, Harry. They’re an island in rough seas.” Dennis cleared his throat and busied himself towel drying his hair, then wiping his glasses, smudging them far worse than the rain had. He had a tremor.

Greg came in and rested a hand on Dennis’ shoulder, welcoming him back, and a knowing nod passed between them. It was only later in the meeting, after Harry heard Dennis’ story of how he was lost in the bottle after his brother died in the war that he allowed himself to cry. Really cry. For Dennis and for Colin. For all the times he had brushed his older brother off. For the times he didn’t recognise his bravery, his heart of gold, his love for his fellow students, muggle and wizard alike. For the fact that Dennis had watched his father die of grief for the loss of his son.  

Dennis had pulled and torn at all the raw parts of Harry - all of the guilt, all of the grief, the burden of the war. Luna had watched the two of them closely all meeting, and afterwards had pulled Harry aside. 

“You didn’t cause the war, Harry.” She had said, softly and with care. “We all carry grief, though we do not all carry blame.” 

He had told Dennis he was happy to see him back in meetings the next time they met. And his heart was open, without feeling as though he would die of the pain. 

Luna had ended their last solo session with a suggestion for homework. For something to mark his one year date. For a challenge, something he felt he was ready for, something he would have been scared to do in the past. It hadn’t taken him long to think of what he wanted to do. 

“Harry! Brekkies!” Came Ron’s voice from the kitchen, and Harry smiled, pushing the thought of what’s to come to the back of his mind as he slipped out of bed and grabbed a shirt off the chair in the corner. It was the one he had been wearing yesterday, plain black and not too disgusting to have made it to the wash pile in the corner on the floor. 

Harry padded into the kitchen and kissed Rose on the cheek good morning - as he had extrapolated, there was egg everywhere, including in her hair. And Ron’s hair. But it didn’t matter, as the two of them were thoroughly enjoying their morning routine, Ron still humming his breakfast song. 

“Fry up?” Asked Ron, pushing a plate of eggs and back bacon toward Harry. 

“If you’re offering.” Harry said, taking the plate and sitting next to Rose, who was now waving her bit of bacon at him like a wand. 

“Today’s going to be a good day, mate, I can just feel it.” Ron said, wiping his greasy hands on his orange Chudley Cannons apron. Harry had a vague memory of Hermione giving it to him for Christmas some years ago. 

“Oh yeah? You’d be making Trelawney proud, talking like that. Saw it in the crystal ball, did you? Not just fog, today?” Harry said, mouth full of eggs and a smile on his face. He also had the light and airy feeling that today would be going his way, he was feeling strong and capable and ready. No hints of the darkness creeping along the edges of his shadow. 

Ron snorted, nearly spitting out his own mouthful of sausage. “You git, nothing like that. How dare you remind me of some of the lowest moments in my otherwise unmarred academic record. It’s just got some great intel on the Lestrange case yesterday. We might be closing in. Should be a raid today in a few hours. I’m due to go in and organise the thing.” 

Harry stared at Ron, a familiar prickling sensation traveling up his spine, his hair raising on the back of his neck. Harry felt his smile fall and his face turn stoic, hardening with hatred. His magic, which had been so calm and careful flared beneath his hands, singeing the wooden kitchen table beneath his palms, smoke curling gently upward. 

Ron stared, his mouth hanging open. “Harry.” His voice was soft, but scared. Rose had gone quiet, her lower lip quivering, a cry building in her tiny chest. 

Harry swallowed down hard and focused his thoughts. He didn't want to scare them. He didn’t want his magic running wild. He wanted Lestrange, wanted him caught, captured, held in the cells far below the ministry, but he could trust Ron to orchestrate it. He didn’t need to jump in. He didn’t need to. 

Beneath all of Harry’s writhing and twisting malice, was fear. He needed Draco to be safe. As soon as Harry recognised it, he took a great shuddering breath and slumped back in his chair, his hand over his own chest, his heart thrumming against his palm. He was scared. 

Harry reeled himself in, pulling his magic to him, letting the gentle ghost across his skin soothe him. He was okay. Draco was okay. Ron was going to get Lestrange. It was going to be okay. 

Several slow, deep breaths later, Harry looked up and met Ron’s gaze. They were both silent a moment, Ron slowly stroking Rose’s hair until she calmed down, going back to drooling on the edge of her bacon wand, eyes big and staring at Harry. 

“Was that what you meant? When you first came back you said you were dangerous. Was that it? Your magic?” Ron’s voice was soft and careful, and Harry nodded slowly. 

“We’ve always known you’ve had more magic than the average wizard, Harry. We’ve known it affects you, responds to you, that you channel it like none of us ever could. Even Hermione, with her perfect technique and lexicon of spellwork, she never had power like you did.” 

“Lot of good it did me.” Harry said, his voice sour and sullen, his shoulders rolling forward as he put his elbows on the table, head in his hands. 

Ron scoffed, clearly not accepting Harry’s bitter defeat so easily. “Saved the world with it, didn’t you?” He reached over and rubbed Harry’s shoulder. “It just feels different now, stronger. But you didn’t do anything but singe the table a bit from your hands. You weren’t dangerous. We’re all fine.” 

Harry sighed heavily, scrubbing his face with his palms, pushing his hair up off his forehead. 

“Are you going to tell me why you’re so affected by my mentioning Lestrange? I know you worked that case, Harry. I won’t talk about it if it bothers you.” 

“No, Ron, no. It’s not that I worked the case, it’s not that I don’t want to hear about it. I just really want you to get him. I really, really want you to put him away. He doesn’t deserve to be free.” Harry looked up at Ron’s now serious face, the face he wore at work, as an auror. 

“He hurts people, Ron. He’s still hurting people.” Harry said this part softer. His mind was full of the scars on Draco’s hips and down his stomach. Of his fear. Of his nightmares, where invisible hands closed around his neck. As he begged to be released. Gasping. 

“I’ll do my best, Harry.” Ron said, untying the hideous orange apron from his lanky frame, hanging it up by the stove, twitching his wand at the stove to arrange clean up. 

“When you bring him in,” Harry started, suddenly full of resolve. “I want to speak at his trial. I want to ask for the maximum sentence.” 

Ron raised an eyebrow as he flipped a cleaning charm at Rose, clearing away all remnants of the fry up. “I’ll arrange it.” He said simply, grabbing his auror robes and briefcase by the door. 

 

—————————————————-

It was the late afternoon by the time Harry could get away from the farmhouse. Hermione had been late coming from work, mumbling incoherently about needing to read up on some things, cheeks unusually flushed and hair even more wild than usual. 

Harry had put Rose down for a nap and made her a cup of tea, which he brought to her in the living room, her books already strewn about the table and sofa, her shoes off and her stockinged feet crossed beneath her. She looked exactly as she had all of their Hogwarts days, worrying her lip and flipping pages frantically. 

“Hermione.” Harry said, trying to keep the laugh out of his voice. 

“Mm, Harry?” She said, not looking up, but twitching her wand to flip through the index of an absolutely ancient looking encyclopedia next to her. 

“I’m going out for a few hours. If I’m not back by midnight, please come and get me.” 

Hermione’s head snapped up and the encyclopedia next to her fell shut. She looked instantly worried, and she pushed a section of hair away from her face to stare up at him. 

“It’s okay. Nothing will happen, and I’m feeling fine. Good, even. I’m just trying to be accountable. Extra accountable. I’m going to Grimmauld Place, and I wanted to tell you, so you didn’t worry.” 

His attempt to comfort her didn’t seem to work very well, as her brows were creasing more and more as he spoke. 

“It’s been a year, ‘Mione. A year today. I have questions that I need answered. I have things I need to finish there.” He didn’t want her to know how nervous he felt, so he was putting on a brave face and schooling any of the uncertainty from his voice. It was at least partly truthful. 

Harry picked up some of the books and put them on the coffee table, sitting next to Hermione and taking her hand in his. 

“I know I disappeared for a year, Hermione. I know I broke your and Ron’s hearts. I know I messed up a whole lot of things in my life, and it’s okay if you’re worried and you don’t trust me or don’t trust that I’ll be okay. But, I can’t stay here forever, and I need you to believe that I’m capable of taking back my life, because I need to believe that I’m capable.” 

She nodded slowly, her eyes bright and her hands tremulous in his. “Okay, Harry.” She said softly. “By midnight.” 

“By midnight.” He repeated, and kissed her temple. He got up from the sofa and let her hand fall from his. 

He strode to the door and pulled on his purple hat, shoving it down over his unkempt hair and slipping his wand into his jeans pocket. It was now or never. 

At the end of the lane, Harry took a deep breath and spun, concentrating hard on the familiar stoop of number 12 Grimmauld Place. 

“ _ You have returned to us, _ ” hissed a soft voice as Harry straightened up, opening his eyes and glancing up at the ironwood barrier before him, the last light of the afternoon falling on the familiar carvings, and he reached out to feel the ancient grains of the door. 

“ _ More whole than you ever were, I see. _ ” The little adder had uncoiled itself and was sliding around the knocker, peering down at Harry, forked tongue flicking into the air. 

Harry’s fingertips brushed the intricate carvings of the forest scene before him, trees swaying in the warm wind of spring, the visage coming to life as he traced the edges of a large beech tree. His magic thrummed beneath his hand, rejoicing as it recalled the feel of the vernal grasses and budding shoots, new leaves and the thawing springs beneath stretching boughs. The smell of lilacs and the familiar hum of bees amongst the undergrowth.

He had always rushed his arrival, ignoring the ornate door, sniping with the little adder and demanding entrance, mind occupied with secrets and needs, with dying rather than living. Today, he let his magic reacquaint itself with the wards, disused and dusty, lingering with the dark and coppery smell of curses and malintent. He let himself seep into the ironwood and around the ancient hinges, the rough stone and wrought iron that fortified a place he had once been desperate to call home. 

It was true what Ron had said, he had always been powerful, always full of magic, bursting at the seams, but he had never been this aware, this awake, this connected, and settled with his power. In the days before, when he would come to Grimmauld Place to obliviate himself and dampen his casting, to blend his blood with opiates, he was always fighting, always at odds with himself, constantly at war, always with a sickening unease. 

With the re-emergence of his magical skill came a newfound synergy - these days, when he cast, it was all of the pieces of him, together, united. The bickering, the mischief had stopped. Wordless, wandless, he could bring forth the most beautiful and complex of spells as if they were just an extension of himself, part of his being, in his blood. 

As his fingers moved across the forest scene, thestrals began to emerge among the trunks and lower branches, shaking their heads and beating their wings, gold filigree unfurling from their manes, down their withers, across their scalloped hip bones and into their tails. Harry could imagine their screeching nickering, so familiar to him now, and a smile ghosted across his lips.  

“ _ So, parselmouth, the death-beasts have chosen you too, _ ” hissed the little berg to his right. “ _ Just as well, for the House of Black should not be sitting empty for so long. _ ” 

“ _ For too long this house has been full of dark and hidden things. The thestrals were right to take it back from death. He has taken too many here. _ ” Harry said softly, looking over at the little snake, now puffing impressively, the dark half moons along it’s back expanding and shrinking with each huff of air, the orange ringed eyes trained on Harry’s. 

“ _ Yes, young master Black. Too long death has hunted here. I am glad to see you have escaped him. I did not think you would. _ ” 

“ _ Nor did I. _ ” Said Harry, closing his eyes and picturing the day he had been so intent on dying. So resigned. Trapped. “ _ Nor did I. _ ” 

Harry closed his eyes a moment, focusing on his magic, winding its way up the face of the towering dwelling, it was coiling around tendrils of the dark magic that had lurked there and melting it away, replacing it with the same golden latticework that had once protected Tenebris Hollow. That he had conjured to keep Draco safe. 

The thought of Draco pulled the air from Harry’s lungs and he, for a moment, forgot to breathe. Images of the last time they had come here flickered from his memory, Draco standing behind him, waiting, patiently. Draco’s hand just brushing against his as they climbed the stairs, and then grabbing for him while they apparated away, just as he had when he saved him.

The lock clicked and the heavy ironwood door swung inward, pulling Harry from his reverie. Harry took a deep breath, thanked the adder, and crossed the threshold into the familiar musty hallway. The ancient lamps along the wall flickered to life, one by one, far more than the single bulb that used to guide his debauched journeys throughout the house. 

He stood in the foyer, contemplating the house, sending his magic out along the stairwell, into the kitchen, across ancient oak floorboards and slabs of marble cut from the south of France. He let tendrils snake into the darkest corners and crevices that had not seen light since years before Sirius’s death. Everywhere that Harry felt resistance, felt the sickly snaking pull at his viscera, the creeping shadows and burning hum, he focused on it, met it and challenged it. “You cannot have me” he thought, over and over, as his skin prickled and his hair raised, like the air had suddenly become heavy with electricity. The smell of blood was thick and purulent by the time he paused a moment, hand reaching out against the wall to steady himself, drained by the intensity of the depths of the house, by the layers of magic that death had sewn there. 

Harry felt weak and overwhelmed, nausea building up in his gut as he stumbled over to the foot of the stairs. He sank down on the second step, leaning his head into his hands and breathing deeply. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but the house had fought him, fought to hang on to it’s ways, to stay comfortable and sick. 

Harry concentrated on his breaths. In and out. Deep and slow. The nausea would leave him soon, the thoughts of what he had done upstairs, the pleasure, the slick feel of the honey, it would follow. He could manage the upwelling of desire. He had been prepared for it. Prepared for it to hit as soon as he weakened. He groaned out loud into the otherwise silent house, willing it away. “You cannot have me.” He said, into the unsettled dust, still pooling in the air, his head still hanging down, his hands threading through his hair. 

He felt a soft gust of hot air against his hands at the same time he heard a familiar snort and the rustling of wings. Harry pulled his head up so quickly he instantly became lightheaded, the room spinning around him, his stomach threatening, his hands reaching to steady himself on the stairs behind him. 

In front of him was a thestral. The very same stallion that had come to him in the gorge the night Draco had asked him to leave. It was leaning it’s head forward and into Harry’s chest, snorting another jet of warm air across his lap and nuzzling against his sweater. 

“You.” Harry said, completely awestruck, reaching out and sliding his hands up either side of his skeletal skull, rubbing slowly up underneath the ragged forelock that stretched down from between his ears, which were swiveling back and forth. 

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, letting the gigantic beast lean into his hands and watching in amazement as he stretched out his enormous wings in the seemingly impossibly cramped space of the hallway. 

The thestral nudged Harry’s chest a bit, as if to rouse him into standing up. 

“Okay, okay, I can see you don’t want me lounging about while there’s work to be done.” Harry said fondly, his limbs still feeling a bit weak, but his spirits lifted by the visitor from the forest. He steadied himself against the wall and pushed up onto his shaky legs. He hadn’t realised this would take so much out of him. 

Harry cast a tempus, and swore instantly at the time. 23:49. Hermione would come tearing down the place in a few minutes if he didn’t get back. 

“Thank you.” He called to the thestral as he ran back down the hall and out the front door, though he was met with another disgruntled sounding snort and the stamp of a hoof. 

“ _ Until next time. _ ” Hissed the little adder at his back as Harry nearly fell across the threshold in his hurry to disapparate back to the little farmhouse in the country. 

He arrived, panting at the front door, which was already standing open. 

“Hermione!” He called, kicking off his trainers and throwing his hat back over the hook by the door. 

“Hermione! I’m here! No need to raise hell!” Harry slid in his socks across the wooden floor and into the living room, coming to a haphazard halt as he nearly knocked over a coffee table covered in books. 

Hermione was kneeling on the ground by the sofa, where Ron was seated, just taking off his auror robes. 

“Ron.” Harry said, his voice strained. 

“What happened?” Harry was already by Hermione’s side, his eyes drawn instantly to the dark blood stains that spread across his uniform. 

“It’s ok, Harry. I’m fine. We got him. We got Lestrange.” 

Ron was pale. Paler than normal. He looked exhausted. Harry looked to Hermione, who was worrying her lip, eyes fixed on him, her hands applying some kind of salve to the curse marks that had marred his left arm, her wand tucked behind her ear. 

Harry let out the breath he had been holding. He needed to send an owl. 

  
  
  



	5. The Death Chamber

_ April 11, 2009 _

The usually familiar office of muted tones and soft furniture felt uncomfortably warm today. Stifling, even. Beatrice’s gaze seemingly more sharp than usual. Pining him to the spot with a worried crease in her brow. It was subtle, but Draco could see it. 

He was sure he had done it now, was sure she was going to recommend he was admitted to the Janus Thickey ward, where Unice would have to spoon feed him for the foreseeable future. Sure that his year in the forest, and subsequent fallout had irreparably broken him somehow. That loving Harry had, continuing to love Harry, had fried his brain and sense of reality. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to think of how best to expound on the odd statement he had blurted out at her when he first came into the office 5 minutes ago, “ _ I’m seeing things that aren’t there.” _

“Would you care to clarify?” Beatrice prompted, when it seemed Draco was just going to continue to stare at her in wide eyed befuddlement. “What are you seeing?”

“Thestrals.” He muttered, shocked by his own confession.

“And how do you know they aren’t real?” Her voice was smooth now, eyes less hawk-like.

“I don’t. I just- how many thestrals are usually wandering around the Ministry grounds? Or Diagon Alley? Or St. Mungo’s?! For fuck’s sakes I-”

“Draco-“ she interrupted his increasingly frantic gesticulating, “let’s take a deep breath and go back to the beginning. When did this start?”

“3 weeks ago, I saw the first one after my first meeting with the DoM.” he mumbled, his head now in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. He had minimal shame with Beatrice, as she had seen him in much worse condition, but he knew the fact that he had waited 3 weeks to bring this up would cause at least one raised eyebrow of disapproval that he did  _ not  _ want to see. 

“And you’ve never seen thestrals in these areas before?” She asked, scratching a few scant notes on her clipboard. 

“Not that I’ve noticed, no.” He finally picked his head up from his hands and tried to regain some dignity.

“And you’re certain no one else can see them?” 

“Well, honestly, how many people can see thestrals to begin with?”

“That’s true.” She conceded. “And I don’t want to dismiss this if they’re truly hallucinations, but I want to get a more clear picture before we jump to anything. Thestrals are unusual to begin with because so few people can see them. Have you seen them in any muggle areas?”

“No, only wizarding.” 

“And what predicated this? You said you were in a meeting with the DoM, do you want to discuss what happened?”

Draco thought back to that painfully awkward, yet thoroughly engrossing experience. 

He had arrived nearly an hour early and paced the alleyway near the visitors entrance as he tried to calm his overwhelming nausea and stop sweating so much. He had had to cast three drying charms on himself by the time he was due inside. He had managed to make it through the atrium and security with minimal eye contact, which was a huge relief, but the lifts down to the DoM were a different story. 

Packed with people making their way to the various ministry departments, most didn’t recognize let alone engage with Draco. But, there were a few others that gave squawks of surprised and awkwardly shuffled away from him, causing many a curious eye to swivel in his direction. This attention, minor though it was, was causing the all too familiar flush of crimson to rise on his neck and cheeks, and he had broken out into another bout of uncontrollable sweating. 

He had fished compulsively in his pocket for a post-it note to soothe his nerves and distract his mind before remembering that he didn’t carry hope with him anymore. Instead, he touched Harry’s words traced on frayed parchment that further tightened the vice grip of nerves in his midsection. 

Harry had sent him another letter. One he hadn’t read yet, but that took up its place next to the other two. Surely this one would condemn him in the way he knew he deserved. With a jolt that had little to do with the descent of the torture device he was traveling in, he remembered when he had bumped into Harry on these lifts well over a year ago. The smell of dark magic, the hopelessness.

By the time the lift reached his floor, it was empty, but he was wrecked. His knees shook, his shirt under his robes were damp, and his hair felt gross. Leaning against the wall after stepping off the godforsaken box of emotion, he took deep breaths and tried to regain his footing. He had had to cast an extra strength drying and cleaning charm on himself before convincing himself not to get right back on the lift and flee from this hell hole. 

Glancing at his watch, he saw he had 10 minutes to get down the hall. He schooled his features, gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on his briefcase, and marched forward into the dimly lit stone passage. 

The entrance hall to the DoM was dark. Much too dark. Behind a rather innocuous wooden door was a large dark antechamber with a small reception desk piled high with parchment that hid a rather old and frail looking witch. 

The walls, floor, and ceiling were the same monotone slabs of shiny black granite, giving the place a look of wetness. It reminded him of Voileami’s cave, he thought with an ache in his heart, but not as beautiful. No glowing moss, no artful nests. The light from the numerous torches on the wall seemed to be sucked into the blackness of the granite. He honestly didn’t know how the receptionist could see anything on the parchment in front of her. 

“Hello,” He said, his very formal Healer voice echoing off the walls loudly, “I’m here to see Unspeakable Granger.” 

Without looking up from her parchment, the pale woman said in a dusty voice, barely above a whisper, “Have a seat, she’ll be here in a moment dear.”

Draco looked around, trying to see what seat she was referring to, but the room was so dark he found himself squinting into the blackness. It wasn’t until he walked off towards the torches in the corner of the room that he located what seemed to be one of a few black leather armchairs scattered along the back wall. Honestly, Draco thought, whoever their interior decorator is should be fired. 

He settled himself into the surprisingly comfortable chair and wondered if Granger would even be able to see him when she came out for him. 

He needn’t have worried however, for only after a few moments of enduring his internal boggart’s insistent insinuations that Draco should have stayed home, Granger was striding out of a door behind the receptionist and towards Draco. 

Since Hogwarts, Draco had had zero personal contact with Granger. He apologized to her in 8th year, yes, a painfully awkward experience. But they had essentially ignored one another since. It wasn’t until they began exchanging professional owls about his research that he had had anything to do with her. He was filled with trepidation that his youthful apology all those years ago wouldn’t be enough to transcend their history and allow them to work together as professional adults. 

And, a rather large part of him, a part he was studiously trying to ignore, was praying to any deity that was listening that he would be able to get on with Harry’s best friend. That she wouldn’t hate him. That hopefully she would maybe even like this Draco. That the promise of Harry’s letter wouldn’t be lost because Hermione didn’t want anything to do with the petulant bully that called her a mudblood. 

Draco jumped to his feet on her approach, he was sweating again. 

“Healer Malfoy.” She said professionally, but with warmth and a hint of an ironic smile, as she extended her hand to Draco as if they were meeting for the first time. 

“Unspeakable Granger.” He said mimicking her tone and gesture. 

At that, she really did smile, “Please call me Hermione.” She said as she turned and gestured to the door she had come through. 

“Alright. Hermione. Then please call me Draco.” He said surprising himself. He almost never encouraged first names in a professional context. Harry was melting his brain, and he hadn’t even spoken with him in two months. 

Hermione cast a curious and appraising glance towards him as they came through the door and into a larger circular room with identical doors placed around its wall. 

“Okay, Draco, through here.” She said, leading him through an inconspicuous door like all the others. They stepped into a large warmly lit office with wooden paneled walls and an enchanted window with a view of a forest. He was so relieved to be in a place with adequate lighting that he let out an audible sigh of relief. 

Hermione chuckled and offered Draco a chair in front of her desk. “The darkness is a bit oppressive out there isn’t it?”

“A bit? I know you guys have a reputation, but is the aesthetic necessary?” Draco huffed with amusement. 

She actually laughed at that. Oh god, he was doing this. He was joking with Hermione Granger. Looking at her in this light without having to squint he could see she had grown into a stunning person. Her hair was still all wild curls and frizz, but it looked somehow edgy and stylish with a quill sticking out from behind her ear. Her skin was clear and radiant, and although he knew she had a small toddler, she didn’t look like a frazzled mom. She looked powerful. Her eyes were kind but calculating. And although her smile was genuine, he could see the reproach behind it. 

Sitting there before her he was suddenly overcome with the knowledge that she had probably seen Harry that very morning. That she was his best friend. That she knew how Harry was doing. What he was doing. He was filled with an almost overwhelming urge to ask how he was. To shake her and demand that she tell him that Harry was safe and loved. He wanted to tell her to tell Harry that he was proud of him. But he swallowed the impulse. This was not the time nor the place. He still didn’t know if Harry had told anyone about them. 

“So,” Hermione began, rocking in her chair, “thestrals.”

They had talked about his research for nearly four hours. Hermione had gone over it with a fine tooth comb and knew it nearly as well as Draco did. Draco couldn’t hide that he was thoroughly impressed with her tenacity and academic rigor, and he was thankful that her single-minded focus seemed to leave little room for awkward lulls. She asked probing questions and Draco felt solid for the first time in weeks, being able to discuss his work with someone who matched his intellectual and interest level. 

As they were winding down their discussion of how to move forward, they began picking through some of the more esoteric aspects of thestral and blood magic.

“My supervisor seems to really think there is something to the theory of a soul having a certain imprint that allows certain people to work with thestrals and unicorns. I’m not entirely convinced.” She had a shrewd look on her face. 

“Why not?” Draco asked, feeling suddenly watched. 

“It’s an unusual circumstance because there are so few people able to access the magic of unicorns and thestrals as it is, so its not like I can gather 100 of you and see  _ why _ and  _ how  _ this is all happening, you know?”

“Yes, it would be ideal if there were more of us.”

“I just have a hard time believing that you couldn’t access unicorn magic because you weren’t pure, or that you have to be somehow evil to access thestral magic.”

Draco stilled. “Is evil the opposite of purity?” he asked carefully. This suddenly felt like a very fragile conversation. After four hours of amicable camaraderie discussing research, he was afraid that Hermione had forgetting who she was speaking to. 

She seemed to have realized what she had said, and took her time choosing her next words. “I didn’t mean that Draco, I know you’re not evil.” she said softly, genuinely. “I’m just having a hard time conceptualizing the dichotomy of these two creatures and what that means for the people who can access their magic.”

“How it’s felt for me, and for other people I’ve known,” he said vaguely, pointedly, watching as Hermione narrowed her eyes, “is that these creatures seem to have chosen me, us, because we’ve chosen death at some point in our lives. Accepted it to the point of seeking it willingly.” 

Disregarding Draco’s confession, she narrowed in, “Who are the other people you’ve known? You didn’t mention that in your research.”

“It's anecdotal.” He said, waving his hand dismissively, not meeting her eye. “People I’ve met along the way.” He said even more vaguely. 

She didn’t seem satisfied with that but moved on anyway. “So, because you’ve chosen death at some point, but clearly didn’t die, they chose you?”

“I think so, yes.”

She looked pensive, brow furrowed in consideration. “I wonder…” she said, tapping her chin, swiveling her chain. 

“Wonder what?”

Seeming to have decided something, she jumped up from her chair. “Come with me, I have something I want to try.”

Feeling startled, he got up and followed her from the room, leaving his researched scattered on her desk. They walked back out into the circular room. As soon as the door closed the room began to spin around them. Feeling slightly alarmed, he turned to Hermione, who stood tapping her foot impatiently as she stared ahead in concentration. When the wall stopped spinning she grabbed his sleeve and pulled him through another door. 

“How can you tell where you’re going?” He asked in confused amazement. 

“The doors know I mean business, they don’t mess me about anymore.” She replied ominously.

Feeling even more confused, and a little afraid, than he did before he asked the question, he allowed himself to be lead through hallways and rooms of weird tanks, shelves of odd instruments, and halls of towering storage. Finally, they reached a door that opened at the top of what appeared to be a circular stone cathedral. At the bottom of the steps in the center of the room was a dais, upon which sat a simple stone carved archway, underneath which hung a tattered veil. 

He slowly followed Hermione down the steps and towards the dais, a subtle echoing murmur quietly reverberating through the room. He noticed that while there was no breeze, the veil fluttered as if caught in an eternal draft. 

As they got closer, he realized the echoing murmurs were actually whispered voices. Quiet and indistinct voices, but very real all the same. He noticed too that Hermione was watching him closely, seemingly unbothered by them. 

“What is this?” Draco asked, eyes transfixed by the softly swishing veil as they arrived before the dais.

“This is The Death Chamber.” Hermione stated, still watching him, as if waiting for something. 

Draco huffed an uncomfortable laugh. “Are you going to ritually sacrifice me on the altar of blood magic research in here?” 

The fierce look of concentration on Hermione’s face broke and she smiled, looking away from Draco and towards the veil. “Sorry, this was a bit ominous, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, just a little.” He smiled back, but eyes never leaving the archway, feeling inextricably pulled towards the veil. The voices sounding even louder now that his foot was resting on the first step of the dais. 

“I brought you in here to see if you were affected by this archway.” She said, crossing her arms, watching his fixation curiously. 

“Why would it affect me?” He asked, the voices getting a bit louder, more familiar. 

She didn’t respond, but Draco felt something tugging at his sleeve and he realized that he had climbed the last of the steps without noticing and Hermione was now trying to pull him back. 

He shook himself and stepped down, finally looking away from the archway to see the concerned and thoughtful look in Hermione’s eyes. 

“ _ Honestly, Draco…”  _

The sound of that quiet yet undeniably familiar voice coming from the archway caused Draco to jump quite involuntarily with shock. 

“…what?!” He stammered, looking panic-stricken between the veil and Hermione, who seemed to be watching him even closer now.

“What?” Hermione asked, with a clinical voice. 

“What the fuck was that? Did you hear him?” Draco asked, his voice shaky. 

“Hear who?” 

“You’re telling me you didn’t just hear Severus’s voice?” he said, desperate for confirmation that he wasn’t going insane. He knew he had heard Severus’s voice from his portrait a thousand times, but this, this felt different.

“No.” She said interestedly. “I never hear anything come from the veil. That’s why I brought you down here, to see if you could.”

“What?” He asked distractedly, staring at the veil, looking for any sign of his godfather to appear through the tatty fabric. 

“The only people who hear voices are those who have a deep connection with loss and death. Honestly, I think I’m too… clinical, to hear them.”

Draco made a strangled sort of noise, one of exasperation, confusion, and incredulity. “I’m a healer! I’m incredibly clinical!” 

“Yes, true, but you seem to have a deep connection to your magic and the magic around you. And something deeper than just a theoretical interest in death and thestral magic. These are things you’ve lived and experienced. The truth is, I’ve never loved someone who has died. Not like you have. Or… others.”

He was looking at her now as she spoke, but the veil kept catching his eye from the periphery. Each time it fluttered, he was reminded of the swish of a thestral tail disappearing behind a tree. Of the sound of their deep snorting ambling behind him. This large room with its omnipresent voices and hypnotizing veil made him crave the forest and the presence of his thestrals so strongly that it was like a physical pain. His missed Voileami terribly. Missed Harry terribly. 

It was only after finally leaving a very distracted Hermione flipping feverishly through giant tomes on her desk, and regaining the light of day outside the ministry, that Draco heard it for the first time since the morning he left the forest. The familiar rustle and flap of leathery wings. 

He spun around on the spot in the alleyway and found himself standing face to face with Voileami. 

He was so shocked, so startled, so convinced that he was hallucinating, so afraid that he had lost his marbles after hearing Severus’s voice, that he apparated home before he could convince himself to touch her. 

 

What if she wasn’t real? 

What if she was?

What would it mean, either way? Were thestrals visiting Harry, too?

 

After that day, he started seeing Voileami in the strangest places. Constantly. And every time he encountered her, he was too afraid to reach out to see if she was real. Too afraid to ask others if they could see thestrals. Too afraid to tell anyone, lest it be confirm he really had lost the plot. 

He saw her in the deserted halls of St. Mungo’s, down the side roads of Diagon Alley, and once even in the hallway of his flat. And even when he didn’t actually see her, he could often hear her soft snorting, hear the rustle of her wings, the gentle clip of her feet on the pavement behind him when he walked to work.

 

Now, sitting in Beatrice’s office, awaiting for what felt like a verdict in nervous anticipation, he felt in his pocket for the unread letter. 

“Draco, first I want to say that you’re okay. Even if these are hallucinations, you have no other history of psychotic episodes and no other symptoms to indicate that you’re a danger to yourself or others.” Draco felt a bit of the tension writhing in in stomach lessen at her carefully chosen words. 

“But, because this is such an unusual situation, I’m going to give you homework.” Her face was soft and those familiar hazel eyes didn’t flinch from his wary gaze. “Next time you see Voileami I want you to try and touch her. And, I want you to tell a friend that can also see thestrals about this, and ask them to confirm her presence. If you had said you were seeing people who weren’t alive, or literally any other hallucination I wouldn’t indulge in this, but because this is so out of the ordinary and with your work with the DoM and strong connections to thestrals, it's best we be sure. Do you think you can do that?”

“What if it’s really her?” He asked, feeling small. 

“Then we’ll figure out what she wants. But for now, let’s rule out complex stress-induced hallucinations.” He gave her a thankful smile. 

“Now,” she continued, “you haven’t mentioned this mysterious Harry of yours in a few sessions, do you want to discuss why that is?”

Draco felt himself blush. He had let Harry’s name slip from his lips in a moment of sobbing hysteria when he finally told Beatrice what he had done. Although he didn’t clarify that it was  _ the  _ Harry- Harry Potter, he still felt a bit like he had done something wrong by saying his name out loud. “He sent me another letter.” he responded sheepishly, looking at his hands. 

“And?” 

“I haven’t read it yet.” he admitted. 

“When did you receive it?”

“The day before I saw Voileami for the first time.” 

“Draco,” she sighed, “we’ve talked about the importance of open honesty. We’ve been working together for nearly two years. How can you deal with your depression and anxiety when you’re hiding these things from therapy? You’ve been holding onto this letter for 3 weeks as well as the fear of possible hallucinations, which is making your recovery more difficult for yourself.”

“I know.” he groaned petulantly. 

“Secrets are how mental illness flourish, Draco.”

“I know.” He said more softly. 

“Would you like to read it with me now, so we can discuss it together? Discuss whether or not you’re going to respond?”

Draco let out an all mighty sigh of defeat. “Yeah, okay.” He said as he withdrew the letter from his pocket. Sometimes therapy felt like being skinned alive. 

 

_______

  
  


The next morning Draco sat staring at a blank piece of parchment. Harry’s last letter open in front of him. He was thankful, really, that Beatrice had encouraged him to open the letter in her office as he wouldn’t have known how to cope had he been alone. 

 

_ Draco,  _

_ They’ve got Lestrange. The Ministry is still determining a trial date. I’ll be speaking against him, and I thought you might want the opportunity to do so as well. Ron is the lead on his case, and I’m enclosing his contact details at the ministry if you would like to reach out.  _

_ I’m sending you all my strength.  _

_ \- Harry  _

 

Draco had felt as if he had been electrocuted, swiftly followed by an all-consuming full body numbness, reading those words. That was not what he had expected. He couldn’t believe these words had been sitting in his pocket for three weeks. He felt like a fucking idiot.

Beatrice had talked him down from his panic attack and together they discussed his options. His options for the trial, and for Harry. Draco knew now that he couldn’t just continue to avoid Harry because he was scared and embarrassed and hurt. Couldn’t lock these part of himself away and hope to be okay one day without acknowledging them. 

He knew it was time to face the broken and tattered parts of his being and to bring them into the light. To sift through and make himself whole again. To face LeStrange. To reach out to the only person whom he had allowed himself to love. 

He was filled with anguish and apprehension as he brought a shaking quill to parchment and struggled to find a way to put his gratitude and tumult on the page. 

 

_ Harry,  _

_ Thank you for your letters, and for telling me about Lestrange. I will write to Ron.  _

_ I haven’t been brave, but I’m trying to be.  _

_ Did you see Mars last night? The battle continues.  _

_ \- Draco _

 

Before he could talk himself out of it, before his boggart could show him anymore horror, he apparated directly to the wizarding post office to send off his letter to Harry and another to Ron. 

He was filled with so many emotions after he apparated back home that he couldn’t seem to settle. Double checking the meeting schedule on his fridge, he apparated to the corner of a brilliantly familiar garden. One filled with dandelions and clover. 

Making his way towards the path that lead up to the purple front door, Draco was distracted by the swish of a long black tail, and the smell of something. Something that reminded him of woodsmoke and sun. Of herbs and soil. 

Distracted, he turned and pushed deeper into the garden, following the snorting huffs. When he cleared a rather large and unruly rosemary bush, he stood facing, not Voileami as he had expected, but a huge stallion of a thestral. It was taller than Voileami by a few hands, and his wings were massive. Draco stood, obscured by the lushness of Luna’s garden from the house and surrounding area, contemplating the creature before him. 

It stood there, silently watching Draco, seemingly waiting for him to do something. 

Remembering his homework from Beatrice, he reached out a tentative hand. He was flooded with emotion as the animal’s breath ghosted across his skin. Closing the gap, he placed his cold hand on the warm beaked muzzle, and sighed with profound relief. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t hallucinating. He still needed to find outside confirmation, but for now, this was okay. 

“Will you come with me?” He asked the thestral, not sure if he would get a response. 

He turned towards the house and was glad to hear the thestral following him. When he was back in sight of the house, he saw that Luna was on her front porch, watching him with mild amusement.

“The wildness suits you, Draco.” She smiled as he awkwardly stepped over a lush patch of nasturtiums. 

At that, Draco snorted an amused laugh, checking behind him to make sure the thestral was still there. 

“Luna, I need to ask you something.” He said, thestral trailing behind him.

“Oh?”

He ran his fingers through his hair nervously, what if she couldn’t see the thestral?

“Can you see thestrals?”

“Yes.”

“Can you see the thestral behind me?”

“Of course.” She smiled, tilting her head and pointing behind him. “I can also see that small one on the other side of the yard.”

Turning to see his Voileami ambling up the path towards him, Draco cried, “Oh, thank gods.” 

He felt such profound relief that he actually doubled over with his hands on his knees and hung his head. 

“This large thestral has been following a group member around for weeks.” She said dreamily. “But I’ve never seen this small one before. Odd, isn’t it?”

“He’s been following Harry?” Draco blurted out, righting himself. Shocked by his own stupidity, Draco just stared at Luna, waiting for the shoe to drop. Instead, Luna surprised him yet again by smiling widely and reaching for his hand. 

“Care to tell me how you know about Harry and his thestral?”

Draco took a deep breath as he grasped Luna’s hand and allowed her to pull him inside the warm and fragrant house towards the kitchen. His secrets and fear of judgment had allowed his depression to fester for weeks. It was time to come clean to his inner circle. He needed accountability and support. Luna was seeing Harry for meetings, and if she didn’t know yet, he was sure she would soon enough. 

“I’m in love with him.” He blurted. Fuck, that was not what he meant to say. Shit.

“I think that much is obvious.” Luna said serenely, not missing a beat, gathering the necessary things for a tea tray. “What is not obvious, is why exactly you’re not together.”

“How is that not obvious?” Draco asked, feeling gobsmacked. “Has Harry not told you what happened?” 

“I can’t talk about what Harry and I discuss.” She said simply, pouring boiling water into a floral painted teapot. “I’m asking you to explain it to me.”

So he did. He laid all his cards on the table, willingly. Each time he thought about holding a detail back, he remembered how he had laid in bed without eating for three days. He thought about how Luna had told him repeatedly that she was there to listen and keep all his secrets, when he was ready.

It was a different kind of confession than what he did in therapy. This felt more real. Scarier. More freeing. This felt more healing in a way. Luna wasn’t paid to help Draco unpack his baggage. She did it willingly, and enthusiastically, for no reason other than the fact that she loved him and wanted to rejoice in his growth. Wanted good things for him. Wanted him to feel whole. 

“Then, I disapparated like a complete and utterly selfish  _ demon _ . And then, you found me three days later.” He finished lamely, after his second cup of tea and an entire package of chocolate digestives. 

He felt drained, but lighter. He felt the familiar sense of connection with Luna in this moment as he had with Harry when they traded secrets all the last year. He felt like something in him was bursting, some wall that had held him back all these years, crumbling. Harry had prompted this growth, and now he was doing the work. He was starting to bloom.

“Mm.” She replied thoughtfully. 

“So, you see, that’s why we’re not together. Why we can’t be.”

“Oh, Draco.” She said with that too kind smile. “I think this is a decision you should be making  _ with  _ Harry, not without him.”

"Luna, I'm trying." He said softly. 

She patted his hand and they drank their tea late into the afternoon. 


	6. Goddess of Hearth, Home and Fire

##  Goddess of Hearth, Home and Fire

April 30, 2009 

Hestia always arrived early to meetings. She’d wander the garden, her hands just barely caressing the tops of daisy shoots and early bluebells, forget-me-nots and irises that were eager to grow tall for when summer would come. She’d pick whatever blooming flowers she could find, grab a few vines of ivy along the eastern wall and twist them all together into a crown, her black nails careful to press and wind each stem into its proper place. That crown would sit atop her voluminous natural hair, much like Hermione’s, all meeting, and Hestia’s brilliant amber eyes would gaze out from beneath white petals or dark ivy leaves, full of questions, full of answers, full of calm and comfort. 

When Hestia talked about recovery, she talked about growing through pain, about using it to reclaim and retake what was hers. Using it to help define her strength. 

Harry hadn’t known what she meant, until he had thought back to the day he had conquered the honey. How now, every time he saw it, smelled it, mixed it into his tea, he remembered that this was something that could not break him. It became an affirmation of his strength, a small moment in the day to feel powerful. He began nodding along as she spoke, her voice always soft, but clever and musical when she was focused, lifting up with emphasis, questioning the others, and slowing into deeper tones to challenge them.

Hestia had picked only black dahlias that day, twisting them together into a fervent deep red ring. The crown upon her braided hair had blended beautifully with her skin, and she seemed to Harry to be made of nothing but the depths of the earth itself. Of pain, regrown and reformed into stunning, silken beauty, raw and powerful.

She had recrossed her long and slender legs as she spoke, sitting back in a purple velveteen settee, feet clad in ancient chucks but legs bare to high waisted silken black shorts, belted with a black bow across her midriff. He had watched the graceful movement curiously, wondering if he had felt any attraction beneath the appreciation he had for her long and graceful form. Not attraction, he had mused, just wonder, maybe envy of her poise. She reminded him of someone. 

It was as his gaze traveled back up that Harry had noticed the purple slips of scar tissue that ran across the back of her upper thigh, normally hidden by stockings or leggings, sometimes jeans. Raking marks, clawed hands had found her flesh. He recognised the wounds as the same kind that Draco bore. That poise. That stoic control. The same that Draco shouldered when he was scared. Accompaniment to marks from men who liked it known that they owned their prey. Marks meant to last, to persist. Hestia had never spoken about her scars, but Harry didn’t need to hear words from her lips to confirm the story etched across her otherwise flawless skin. Hers were souvenirs from a war fought on her very flesh. 

Harry felt a sickening wave of nausea wash over him, and it was only when he reopened his eyes that he felt Hestia’s burning gaze. Amber eyes tinted with fire, an eyebrow raised. 

“I’m sorry. Please excuse me.” Harry choked out as he stood, clawing the arms of the little yellow armchair by the door, the spot he had preferred and claimed for his own since his first meeting. 

His chest was tight, and Harry fled from their circle, from the room that had always seemed safe, but now felt fraught with thoughts of Draco, and of Hestia, who were both bonded in their histories. In their horrors. Harry felt his magic pulling and swirling around him as he fumbled into the main hallway, his hand on the front door, opening it out into the misty April afternoon before he knew what he was doing, clamouring down the steps full of potted plants, taking deeper breaths now, his hands on his own chest, willing his heart to stop beating so fast, blinking back the tears that threatened in the burn of his nose and the catch of his inhale. 

He found himself standing, struggling to catch his breath, in the center of Luna’s garden. The beds full and bursting with greenery, flowers peeking out at the tops of stretching stems, bees beginning to find their way from stamen to stamen. For once, his thestral companion was nowhere to be found. 

“Did you think you were the only one in there with poetic scars, Harry?” Hestia’s voice carried across the little garden. She had followed him here. 

Harry turned and faced her, braids tumbling down around her bare shoulders and dahlia crown perched regally atop her head. He felt so foolish, falling apart at her scars, falling apart at a story she hadn’t even told, falling apart because it was Draco who was scaring him, not Hestia in her calm and her power, in her growth through the pain. 

Draco in his isolation, his loneliness, his fear, that’s what made his chest tight and his heart race. Draco, unprotected, unguarded, alone. He was falling apart because maybe Draco needed him, and here he was, falling apart at the very scars he promised to tactfully ignore all those months ago. 

“I’ve seen them before, Hestia. On someone I love. Someone...” Harry didn’t realise he was crying until she reached out to rub her thumb across his cheeks, her smile sad but knowing, his voice disappearing as he realised what he had said. He loved Draco. Loved him even after a month of silence, of separation, of filling his life with all of the ways he could move on. He loved him enough to fall apart. Maybe, even, he fell apart because he loved him and he had spent all this time pretending that whole part of him did not exist, didn’t recover alongside the rest of him, didn’t need space in himself to reclaim and find power. 

Hestia shushed him softly and pulled him into a hug, her black painted nails nestled in his unruly hair. She smelled like the river after a rain, swollen with the richness of the earth. He breathed her in, and the weight of it all settled against him. 

“He left me, Hestia. He got scared and he left.” He whispered into her shoulder, dahlia petals drifting from her crown to the garden below. 

“Did you think you could just soldier on? Recover without acknowledging that he hurt you? Recover without acknowledging that you hurt at all? That you love? Recovery isn’t just unpacking trauma, Harry - it’s not just discussions of the war, ruminating on death. Recovery is learning how to live with all of the parts of yourself, together and whole. Broken or scarred, hidden or shameful, all of the parts of you deserve love and healing - parts that aren’t about the war or death, but are about the strength it takes to live, really live.” She pulled her nails across his back and rocked slowly back and forth, and Harry could hear the running of the river, louder and louder, drowning his thoughts. His protesting.

“Addiction lives in secrets.” He said, mostly to himself. 

“Mm.” Hestia agreed, waiting for him to tell her. For him to give space for his feelings, to give words to his struggles, to pay homage to the tension that had been simmering within him since he had returned from the openness, the honesty that had been his life in the forest. She was telling him it was safe to have that here, too. Not just safe, necessary, instrumental.

“I haven’t told anyone. I haven’t told anyone I’m gay.” Harry lay his head on her shoulder, hiding his face and focusing on breathing. On the words that he had said. Words he had only shared with Draco. 

“It can be hard to open up, Harry. But the ones who love you and want you to be happy will only be interested in rejoicing that you discovered something about yourself. Something healthy and wonderful, something that tends your soul and keeps you closer to who you are. Something that will help you mend all of the parts of you.” 

Hestia lifted his head in her hands and her amber gaze met his, his green eyes puffy and red, tears still tracking down his cheeks. 

“Harry, it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with being gay. Or being in love. And if he ran because he was scared, if he ran and he has scars like mine, it’s also okay. You just may need to go slow. Extra slow. But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you too.” She smiled, and Harry finally felt her magic, slow and stirring around their feet, a soft vibration, like the gentle thrumming of the earth, like running barefoot in the forest. Forget-me-nots were blooming around his ankles as she spoke. 

“I ran too.” Hestia said, her hand slipping down Harry’s arm as she turned away, her fingers slipping into his. 

He looked up at her, brows pulled together, full of so many questions he was too afraid to ask. She seemed so strong, so capable, so sure of herself. Was she like Draco? Did she shy from sex? From intimacy? Nothing felt appropriate to ask, and he held her hand softly, not wanting to mar the trust they had built, the gentle understanding. 

“Hestia…” Harry started, as she had turned to go back inside, leaving Harry standing alone in the centre of the garden, flowers carpeting the once barren earth. 

“How did you stop? Stop running, I mean. What changed?” 

“I changed, Harry. I did the work. I went to therapy. I came to meetings. I still do. I removed myself from a family I could no longer stomach to be associated with. I changed my name from Carrow, and I grew with the pain until there was nothing left to run from. And here I am.” Hestia climbed the steps to Luna’s door, her palm on the wrought iron handle. 

“And, it helped that when Lestrange was done with all those nights at the manor, Greyback came and turned me. It’s hard to be the one who is afraid when you are the wolf. And it’s even harder to hide from who you are when every moon brings a transformation.” As she spoke, Hestia smiled at Harry, pushing open the door and stepping inside, shaking her long braids down her back as she did. 

It took several minutes for Harry to collect his thoughts before he went back inside. In the meantime, he had resolved to tell Ron and Hermione. No more hiding. He wanted freedom. 

_____________________

That night, after dinner had ended, Rose had been put to bed, and Hermione was just settling down to read an absolutely massive text from her work at the DoM, Harry cleared his throat and set down the leftovers he had been putting away, rather more forcefully than he had meant to. He stood over the kitchen table, awkward and unsure what to do with his hands. 

Ron looked up from his casting by the sink (he was busy washing and drying dishes, meal prep for tomorrow and scrubbing the floor where Rose had spilled apple juice), and Hermione stuck her quill between pages to mark her place, still seated at the table, both of them looking up at him expectantly. Hermione’s brow was furrowed, concerned, but Ron’s expression was open and at ease, his wand in one hand and a dish towel in the other.  

“I have something to say.” Harry said, rather redundantly, and stupidly, but his nerves were getting the best of him. He thought of Hestia, and how she had owned every inch of herself, unapologetically, unflinchingly. He took a deep breath. 

“Harry you can tell us if you relapsed, or slipped up, or if you’re struggling with the drugs.” Hermione looked as if she hadn’t been breathing this whole time as Harry had been collecting his thoughts. Her face was paperwhite, her voice pinched, her nails digging into the soft and old leather cover of the book, still in her arms. “I’ve been reading up on if that should happen and we’re supposed to remind you how much we want you alive and healthy and…”

“No, Hermione, no.” Harry said, shaking his head, blindsided by her statement, but touched by her obvious concern. “I’m okay, actually, I’ve been okay, better than I thought I’d be, if I’m honest. The meetings help a lot. I’m sober.” 

The tension drained from her instantly, and she sat back against her chair, now smoothing the indents her nails had made in the leather binding with her thumb. “Then what is it Harry? What’s got you so nervous to talk to us?” 

Harry opened his mouth again to speak, then shut it, still uncertain of how to start. He looked down at his hands and rubbed the callouses there, biding his time. 

Hermione was nearly on him again when Ron spoke up from the other side of the kitchen. “Give him a chance ‘Mione. You can be a bit intimidating, you know.” 

Harry slumped back down in his chair, taking a deep breath. 

“I’m gay.” 

The silence in the kitchen was astounding. He chanced a look up at Hermione, whose mouth was hanging open. She closed it quickly as he looked at her, shrugging, giving her a small smile. 

To his utter surprise, her mouth split into a shockingly wide smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her hands coming up to her cheeks, letting her book fall to the table with a heavy thud. 

“Oh, Harry! That’s wonderful. Well, it’s great. And it’s great you told us! Oh that was not what I was expecting. Gods, Harry I really thought you were about to tell us something awful. But this, being gay, this is lovely. I’m so happy.” 

Harry startled as Ron’s arm came around his chest and he grabbed him in a haphazard hug, his dirty dish towel still grasped in his hand. 

“I’m glad you finally told us, you big idiot.” Ron said, squeezing Harry tightly. 

“Oi, what do you mean finally? I’ve only just found out for myself, you can’t be saying you knew?” Harry said, so pleased with Ron’s reaction, but affronted with this revelation that Ron may have guessed his sexuality before him. 

Ron shrugged, grinning at Hermione, who was now gazing at the two of them across the table. 

“I may have guessed about it. Back in third year. And the whole time you were convinced you wanted to be with Gin. I just always thought it was a bit off. You were just not interested. I’ve been waiting for this moment for nearly a decade now, and I’m just glad we’re all on the same page, finally.” 

Harry snuck a half hearted punch to Ron’s exposed ribs, and he yelped, releasing Harry from his grip. 

“You could’ve told me, you know. Would’ve saved me a whole lot of existential dread.” Harry sniped, putting on a sour face. 

Hermione giggled and reached for his hand across the table, holding it firmly in hers. 

“Harry, we love you. Just as you are. Whatever that means. We’re happy if you’re happy.” She squeezed his hand, and for a brief moment a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face.

“But… Harry… Does that mean… Did you meet someone?” Hermione’s brow was furrowed again, and she was scrutinising his reaction, looking for clues, solving him like any other puzzle. 

Harry smiled and looked down at their hands. 

“Yes. But we are not together.” He said, wondering what Draco would think of his friends, their fanfare, their guessing about his desires long before he ever thought to. He considered telling them the story of reading and re-reading quintessence of debauchery, but he decided against it. That was something he wanted to keep between Draco and himself. It was enough for them to know just this, that he had discovered this small part of himself. 

It was bad enough that Luna kept hinting at it in his therapy sessions - if she wasn’t some kind of master legilimens, Harry would be shocked. Being gay, being in love, these were things he had only just started discussing in his solo therapy sessions, and only in the broadest terms. 

Sure, he had thrown out the term intimacy, and he had briefly mentioned his reawakening from a decided lack of interest in sex to what was now a raging onslaught of hormones and desires. He had even touched on his sense of failure when it came to making love with Ginny and all of the baggage he had been carrying around from that, but it was painful and awkward, and he missed the quiet comfort of Draco’s understanding, his reassuring smiles and the trading of secrets that they had done.  

He thought of Hestia and her words of wisdom. Growing through pain. That’s what this was. He felt himself relax, the tension bleeding from his bones. This wasn’t just growing, this was blooming. He was allowing the truth to come to the surface, to unfurl and be beautifully, decadently free. And the flower crowns and the rush of spring that followed her, it made sense, because she refused to be anything but honest about her scars and honest about each transformation, each petal a eulogy to pain. 

When Harry lay down to sleep that night, laying back on top of his sheets, the comforter pushed back around his legs, he whistled for Little Dipper, who swooped through the window, a mouse in his beak, settling upon the perch harry had erected in the corner of the room. Harry grinned at the little owl, his black ear tufts still absurdly large and comical as ever. 

“Shall I send a letter? Up for a delivery? We’ve got big news to share.” 

Little Dipper hooted, the sounds a bit garbled, a fraction of the mouse’s tail still dangling from his beak. 

Harry summoned parchment and a quill to him with a wave of his hand, laughing softly to himself. 

 

_ Draco,  _

_ I wanted you to know that I am thinking of you. That, if I’m to tell the truth, I think of you nearly every night, and often in the day. But here, laying in bed, I think about the quiet of the hollow, and the evenings we stayed up late, drinking tea and trading trust. I think about the nightjars calling and the smell of lavender and citrus, and the way you let me find myself again. The way you brought me back to life when I was so intent to leave everything behind.  _

_ And, in the spirit of being honest, if I’m feeling particularly vulnerable, I worry about if there is anyone there for you to give you the same rousing shake back from the grips of the things that haunt us, the same grounding hold to the truth - that life, our lives, are full of promise and hope, even if they have been so shrouded in pain.  _

_ I am hoping that, before long, the dreams that plague you will leave you once and for all to sleep in peace. The trial date has been set by the Wizengamot. May 27th at 09:00.  _

_ Though our stars are low on the horizon this time of year, it doesn’t stop me from searching for them. It seems Mars, in the meantime, has dominion.  _

_ Fret not, for as the world turns and the seasons change, so shall the stars, and we will be together in the night once again.  _

_ \- Harry _

 

Harry let out a great huff of air, smiling to himself. Draco’s last reply, three weeks after he had sent the letter, let him know he was still thinking of him too. He lay back on the rumpled sheets of his bed, the parchment resting on his bare chest as he waited for the ink to dry. 

 


	7. Do You Ever See Thestrals?

Do You Ever See Thestrals?

April 30, 2009

“There’s just something we’re missing here, I just know it!” Granger growled to herself as she raked chewed fingernails through her increasingly frazzled looking hair.  Dropping her elbows onto the desk, she slumping over to rub tired eyes with the heels of her hands.

Draco didn’t look much better. He had tossed off his dark grey suit coat, taken off his tie, and even unbuttoned a few of his shirt buttons, revealing pale skin stretched tight over too-prominent collar bones.

They had been at this for hours. Hermione had given up her Sunday at home with her family to accommodate Draco’s increasingly frantic schedule. On top of everything, he had been meeting with Ron in the auror department regularly to go over his testimony, an experience he honestly wished he could obliviate himself from. It’s not that Ron had been mean, or crass, or even inherently oppositional as Draco had expected. No, Ron had treated Draco like any other victim giving testimony, professionally detached. Draco had to walk Ron through all of his worst memories and experiences with Lestrange in gross and graphic details over several painstaking days.

He didn’t know what he had expected. He knew he would have to explain what had happened in order to testify, but he hadn’t been prepared for how invasive and how brutal the questioning would be. Didn’t realize how panic stricken he would feel, knowing that his story would ultimately be public information once the trial was underway. He certainly hadn’t been expecting Ron’s tact or sympathy. After their third meeting discussing the events of 7th year, however, Ron had looked at Draco with an entirely new gaze. Pity. He had tried to hide it, but Draco knew it was there. It made him regret his entire existence. Though, he supposed, pity might be just slightly better than disgust.

So, now, sitting with Hermione, trying to determine _what_ exactly they were missing from their theory on thestral magic, Draco felt a little raw and badgered. Grateful for the distraction, yet drained, and feeling slightly useless.

“I’m at a loss, Hermione, you win.” Draco conceded.

“What do you mean, I win?  What do I win?” She asked in a confused, bemused tone.

“The battle of wills.” He mumbled into his elbow. He had slumped forward onto her desk as well, with his head in the crook of his arm. “You carry on, just leave me here to die, tell my thestral I loved her.” He said with faux drama, flopping the dead weight of his other hand next to his head.

She snorted indelicately. “I didn’t realize you were so funny.”

“I’m not funny.” Draco insisted. “I am defeated by your academic prowess. I don’t know how you have any brain power left after all we’ve looked through today. I’m completely brain dead. Just donate my body to science and get on without me.”

“Wow.” Hermione intoned, drawing out the syllable with a smug smirk on her face. “I never thought I’d see the day when Draco Malfoy admitted defeat to my academic prowess.”

It was Draco’s turn to snort. Lifting his head of his arm, hair askew, and shirt rumpled.

“I was never a match for you. I was always rather jealous of you and your marks in school. It drove me mad. Actually, it drove my father mad, which drove me to act like a complete prick. God, I was awful. I totally deserved you punching me in the face in third year.”

Hermione seemed truly shocked and a little amused by his admission and candor. “And now?” She asked. Her face had shifted into something else, something serious and thoughtful.

“Now, I don’t have the energy to be jealous and my father is in prison.” He said, with a small smile. “I’m just grateful you’re the one working on my research with me,” his words were nothing but the truth, and he hoped she noticed.

She returned his smile. “That’s very Slytherin of you.”

“You can take the boy out of Slytherin, but you can’t take the Slytherin out of the boy.” Draco said in a mock serious tone. He was doing it again, he was joking with Hermione Granger. It was a little terrifying. He hoped Harry would be proud.

Hermione laughed and rolled her eyes. “You’re telling me. I think the same can be said for Gryffindor.” She shuffled some papers as Draco thought about her living with the two lions, herself being a third of the golden trio, and was met with a wave of surprising and novel affection for them. For Harry, specifically. Godrick, he missed him.

“Okay, let’s just go over this one more time, and then we can stop for today. I know you must be tired from your week.” She looked up from the papers in front of her, seeming to have realize what she said. “I mean, Ron doesn’t talk to me about the trial or his cases, but I do know you’re testifying.”

“It’s fine.” He waved her off, not meeting her eye. He knew Gryffindors were too noble to gossip, and Ron had assured him that while they worked on his testimony, everything was confidential. Magically binding. “It’s not like it won’t be common knowledge in a few weeks time anyways.” He said defeat evident in his voice.

She smiled sympathetically before putting her research face back on. “Okay, so, suicide attempts.” Draco marveled at how she could dissect concepts such as suicide with such cool, clinical precision. He was really beginning to understand her detachment from the esoteric concepts of death.

“What about them?” He prompted, throwing his hands in the air. They’d done this dance for what felt like the 80th time today.

“We know that people who’ve attempted suicide can see thestrals, even if they haven’t seen death in others.” She repeated, for what must have been the 50 millionth fucking time.

“Correct.” He agreed, again.

“But, no one has reported being _followed_ or “ _chosen_ ”,” she said the word with dramatic air quotes, “by thestrals. And, of those we’ve surveyed and who have agreed to participate in questioning, people who have attempted suicide seem to have a closer affinity with thestrals. As in, thestrals seem more drawn to and interested in these people than others, with more reported sightings per year compared to control groups, none seem to be followed like you are. In fact, very few seem to have such positive interactions as you do. Most people are quite afraid of them, and are both startled and upset upon seeing them.”

“Which is ignorant, because they’re amazing.” He said, feeling a bit petulant and defensive about his little Voileami.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, they’re very nice.” Her voice was pandering. “But, I just can’t figure out why you’ve got one tailing you. How you were able to get hair, and blood, and saliva. The others weren’t able to do that, even when prompted - really, the results of that trial in Bulgaria in 1808 were simply disastrous. People lost limbs, even.”

She chewed thoughtfully on her pinky nail, and stared off into the void for a few moments. “And, you’ve said you’ve met other people who have…” Her voice trailed off thoughtfully before she turned back to him. “It’s only one thestral you’ve seen?”  

“Just the one is following me.” He subtly corrected. It wasn’t a lie, it just wasn’t a whole truth.

She leaned back in her chair pensively. “But, have you _seen_ other thestrals in odd places? I mean, you said you saw Voileami _in_ St. Mungo’s. On multiple occasions. In empty rooms and deserted corridors. You’ve even seen her here.” She gestured around her office vaguely.

He had, indeed. The second time Hermione had taken him to The Death Chamber, Voileami came out of the archway to greet Draco, giving him quite the shock and giving Hermione a thousand more questions. She was nearly rabid after that particular experience.

He sighed. “Yes. I’ve seen one other.”

“And how do you know that one isn’t following you too?” She demanded.

“Because I only ever see him in one place, so I assume he’s following someone else. Or that he just enjoys loitering there.” Draco conceded, feeling so tired, and not meeting Hermione’s eyes. Her sharpness sometimes put him in mind of McGonagall. It was unfair to keep such information from her, not when withholding it could impede their research.

“Him? Where do you see him?” She asked, starting to scribble frantically on a piece of parchment littered with notes.

“At Luna’s.” He finally said, after a moment of deliberation. He knew once he said where he saw the other thestral, he would be setting Hermione on Harry, and any secrets he had left would be brought to light. The thought was quite terrifying. He would have to reach out to Harry, clear the air. Make a decision.

Hermione looked up sharply. Many emotions and reactions danced across her face in the fraction of a second.

“Luna Lovegood’s?” she clarified.

“Yes. Luna and I are very close. I spend a lot of time there when she doesn’t have meetings.” Draco said. “The male thestral isn’t always there, but often enough.” Draco knew exactly where this line of dialogue was leading Hermione, even if he didn’t say Harry’s name.

Hermione jumped up, a chaotic look that only exams and peer reviewed research could cause. Her afro looked nearly electric with enthusiasm. The air around her crackled with magic. It was almost as if she was possessed, and anything in her way would be decimated, should it dare impede her. She pulled out her wand and in a flash, all the papers on her desk were organised and her books whisked away into her handbag.

“Draco, you wonderful, wonderful man. I have to go get some more books from the archives, follow me out so you don’t have to fight with the doors. I will owl you. Go get some rest.” She was bustling out the door without giving him time to pack up his things, even. He accioed his notes, shoved them in his briefcase, grabbed his jacket and tie and bustled out behind her.

Hermione left him at the lifts, refusing to expound on her renewed fervor. Draco watched her go, muttering furiously to herself down the corridor, with a growing sense of fondness for this completely wild and beautifully intelligent woman. No wonder Harry loved her so much. No wonder everyone said she carried them through the war, that without her, Voldemort surely would’ve won out.

Draco sighed, looking down at his pocket watch to check the time. He had to hurry home, he had a letter to write.

_________

When Draco arrived home from the DoM, he found Little Dipper waiting for him on his balcony. His heart leapt into his throat. Harry hadn’t sent a letter, just a drawing of a little thestral blowing steam out of his nose, pawing the ground. He must have been having a bit of a rough day and wanted to tell Draco about it, without really having to tell him. The smile splitting his face felt so out of place that he didn’t know what to do with himself. He realized Little Dipper was still there waiting for him, and he made his decision on the spot.

“Come in, then.” He told him, holding his arm out. He looked simply delighted with himself, his black tufts comically bouncing on his head as he hopped out onto Draco’s arm. “I’m sorry I’ve been a pain.” He told the owl. “I’m ready to be an adult now, if you’ll kindly wait for me.”

Giving the owl a cracker from the kitchen he snatched a piece of parchment off his desk and began to write. “Just lay it all out there.” He told himself, silencing his boggart. “Secrets are disaster fodder.”

_Harry,_

_I’m sorry. I’m really, truly, repentantly sorry._

_For pushing you. For asking you to leave. For running again. For my silence. For my distance. For taking this fucking long to send this letter that I should have sent weeks ago. For letting it go this far. I also wasn’t ready. I was embarrassed, still embarrassed. But it’s no excuse. You deserve better._

_I don’t want to run anymore. I am working on myself. Your words had ripped me apart in the most beautiful way possible. When did you become so poetic? I hope your recovery is teaching you the things you need. I know mine is._

_I think of you, too. Almost constantly._

_Do you ever see thestrals? I think I may have set Hermione on you, so, apologies for that, too, it seems._

_\- Draco_

On the other side of the letter he drew a picture of two thestrals circling one another. One of them pushing the moon in front of it with its beak, urging it along its trajectory, and the other the sun. Orbiting one another as Harry and Draco had done for what felt like an eternity.

Rolling the parchment up, he secured the letter to Little Dipper and took a moment to give the owl some attention. He had been quite rude to him over the weeks, and felt he had a lot to make up for. “Fly safe,” he whispered as he opened the window and extended his arm towards the sunset.

That night Draco lay in bed, his thoughts twisted in furling tendrils of hope and promise. Lestrange was going to face trial for all the things he had done, and he had finally apologised to Harry.

Draco had never realised what Lestrange’s incarceration would do for him. He never realized that his perpetrator’s continued freedom and evasion of the law had been draped across his shoulders all these years.

Lestrange’s freedom was fetid and heavy, like something since deceased, but foul and putrid, more so with each day that passed. Like carrion. The weight of it was dripping with the things that kept him up at night, that stopped him from engaging with his own sense of self and pleasure, too distracted by the rivulets of rotten offal and shame. How could he lose himself to the throws of passion with himself or another when he could always feel the pressure of that corpse dangling from his frame?

Whenever he had tried to pursue closeness with another or himself, his body would take over and go on automatic. While the rest of him seem to detach, go far away. Leave the scene. He could go through the motions but couldn’t really participate with it. There was a wall.

Laying in the dark, he could no longer feel the burden of it. The subtle undertone of that dead weight he carried, of the acrid sense it brought into his life, wasn’t there anymore. The scent lingered, yes, but the body was finally gone. Left in the interrogation room with his testimony at the Ministry; marked as evidence.

Over the years, when Draco had tried to experience pleasure, his body’s memories of Lestrange had spoilt it rancid. Time and time again it had expired to something putrid, curdling in his gut. But, now, in the safety of his solitude and the knowledge that Lestrange was behind bars, that once evasive sybaritic indulgence lay across his skin, unmarred and wanting. Light and free.

Lestrange was locked away, and while Draco still had far to go, tonight he could see that what had happened to him wasn’t because there was something wrong with Draco. The inborn guilt carried by survivors that usually dragged him down, was lessened. No, for the first time, he could _see,_ truly see, that what had happened to him was entirely Lestrange’s doing. That Voldemort’s reign of chaotic evil had given space and permission for heinous impulses to be acted upon, without fear of retribution, and Draco had just simply been in the way. That no matter what horrible part Draco had played in the war and in Voldemort’s madness as a child, he irrefutably did not deserve what had happened to him. No, that turpitude belonged to Voldemort and his followers, not Draco.

Draco’s pleasure and ability to access it shouldn’t be hung up on the perverted choices of an irredeemable soul. He could have it, and Lestrange couldn’t touch it. It could be for him and him alone. For him and for whomever he chose to share it with.

He thought of Harry, and of all the things he wished he could do with him. Of the ways they could explore this newness together. He hadn’t felt desire in weeks, too marred by the guilt of having run again. But, now, basking in his newfound sense of freedom and self discovery, he felt desire wrap around him like the warmth of the impending summer sun. Dancing across his skin like golden rays of brilliant daylight after a storm.

Goosebumps crept across his shoulders and he sank deeper into his soft duvet, smiling to himself. He let the cosseting embrace of this new hunger mingle with the flutters of contentment that emanated from his core like the pure reflective light of a full moon. It engulfed him in new sensations of hopeful expectancy.

This feeling, this one that normally carried with it the metallic taste of blood and shame, reminiscent of blood curses, rose from his depths and pulsed gently out through his limbs, tasting of something entirely different. Something new. Something yet unnamed.

Draco reached down and felt his waiting erection with a confidence he’d never experienced before. This was okay. In fact, this was better than okay. This was _good_. Draco could feel good, and no one could take that from him. He spent a few minutes exploring himself in a way he had never allowed himself to do. Never felt he had permission to do.

What do I even like? He wondered. Marveling at the fact that he had never asked himself this question. Where to even begin? He was sure there were thousands of things he could possibly like, and he suddenly felt a burgeoning curiosity about discovering them. Thumbing the head of his cock and feeling along the sensitive skin of his perineum with his other hand, he thought about Harry. His green eyes, his strong hands. His soft mouth.

Harry would be proud of him, in this moment.

Draco spend long minutes postponing the inevitability of his release, challenging himself to just feel and to enjoy. To allow himself to exist as he was. His normally cold fingers felt hot and soft in a way that was entirely unfamiliar as he brushed across his entrance and traced along the crease in movements that were becoming more self-assured as he lost himself in his gratification.

He came with a loud cry, his orgasm washing through him as if pulled by a lunar tide. He fucked up into his fist, riding the last of the receding waves until the sensation was almost overwhelming and his cock was nearly flaccid again. He lay there feeling elated with his breakthrough. Floating on a cloud. The shame that normally broke through his post orgasmic haze only danced on his periphery, unable to gain entry into the hallowed space he had cultivated during his explorations.

He fell asleep that night hearing the gentle rustling of wings in the hall.

__________

_May 1, 2009_

The next morning, he received a package from his mother. They had had very stilted contact in the months since Christmas, and he wasn’t feeling overly optimistic about what she may have sent.

After reading the letter and seeing the packages contents, his jaw hit the floor. He could not believe this woman.

Reading and rereading the letter she sent, just to be sure he was seeing things clearly, he pulled the books out of the crate and onto his desk. One by one, he examined each cover in turn and marveled at his mother’s brazen attempts to make amends with her son. Sure enough, as the letter indicated, she had sent him smut. Old. Gay. Magic. Smut. Draco’s boggart laughed maniacally, and he almost joined in.

Apparently, she had managed to find ancient copies of wizarding erotica in an old study, hidden away somewhere in the manor that had belonged to Ursus Malfoy III, whoever the fuck that was. He couldn’t figure out _how_ or _why_ she had come upon the very subject-specific stash of literature, but he was beginning to think their “discovery” was more transparent than she wanted it to appear.

Her letter had said that he wasn’t alone in their family tree, and that he should have these “very important family heirlooms”. Well, that was _not_ what he had expected this morning. His mother was been trying to be supportive, yes, that much was clear, but it was in the most embarrassingly ludicrous and weird way possible.

He flipped open one of the more decadently illustrated volumes, his mouth parted in abject shock to find it was overflowing with explicit depictions of pure hedonistic pleasure. Sex for sex’s sake, or, he supposed, porn without plot.

Suddenly being gay was a Malfoy family tradition, Draco mused to himself. That’s what Narcissa was trying to do. Draco could see how his mother was trying to find ways to make him more acceptable to her worldview and expectations of him. And, however fucking weird and problematic it was, she was trying to accept him.

She was endeavouring to make Draco feel like he could still belong to his family and legacy if he wanted it. He wasn’t sure how to process that or even engage with it. I mean really, he thought, what was he suppose to write back, thanks for the porn?

But, the gesture had given Draco a glimpse of something. Of a cracking visage. Of the crumbling institution that was Narcissa Malfoy. Maybe, just maybe, he’d have hope for her one day, too.

Despite his initial horror and disgust that his mother sent him decidedly ancient pornography. His curiosity, in the wake of his evening, had eventually won over his annoyed incredulity.

He spent hours reading through the dozen some books that she had sent. Some were novels, others were epic poems, others still were graphic picture books, hand drawn and inked with absolutely astounding detail. All of them, however, revolved around gay romance and sex. It reminded him painfully of _Quintessence of Debauchery_ and filled his stomach with a nervous anticipation, remembering the letter he had sent the day before. He thought that Harry would love these.

______

_May 03, 2009_

It was two days later, after much boggart wrestling and a long talk down from Luna, that Little Dipper finally returned with a letter from Harry. When he hadn’t received an immediate response, he had been terrified that his apology was too late, that Harry had come to his senses. He was feeling so restlessly impatient that he took a 24 hour call at St. Mungo’s just to distract himself.

He had just gotten off of said call when he received an urgent letter from Ron that they needed to work out some bureaucratic nonsense with his testimony. Now, deliriously exhausted and emotionally drained, he walked into his flat, followed by the ubiquitous Voileami. Joy and fear fought for dominance as he saw Little Dipper’s ridiculously comical face at the window. Round eyes and black ear tufts so large, he couldn’t take the poor animal’s reproachful glare at being made to wait very seriously. He dashed to the window with a complete lack of decorum, fumbling for the scroll on the owl’s leg.

Wasting no time, he unrolled the scroll as Voileami and Little Dipper reacquainted themselves.

_Draco,_

_Thank you for your apology. I wasn’t expecting one, to be honest, but it was very nice to hear. I accept it, wholeheartedly. If there’s something I can understand, it’s being the one who messed up horribly and needs forgiveness. Let’s not rush things. We managed to flirt for all those years in school without getting anywhere, a few more months won’t kill me._

_As far as recovery teaching me, most of what I am learning is that sobriety was easy in the forest. And, that I was relying on you too much to carry me through it. Don’t worry though, I have a handle on things. I’m doing well. I hope you are too. I think you’ve been by Luna’s recently, as sometimes I almost feel as though I can sense your magic lingering and it will smell like lemon thyme. Maybe I am imagining it, but I hope you are seeing friends and you’re not keeping yourself lonely._

_And yes, I have been seeing a thestral. Have you? He’s been following me for a few weeks now. He doesn’t venture out in front of other people as much, but if I’m alone, and I need him, he comes. What do you think it means? Why us? What about us is different from all the others who’ve seen death during the war? Or all of us who’ve chosen death? Perhaps, it all comes back to the hallows, as so many of the mysteries of my life have, as we were both masters of the elder wand? There aren’t any other wizards alive today that I could ask for comparison, though. Hermione has been quizzing me about it for days on end. I don’t know how to explain the majority of it, so she seems to just get more and more frustrated with me as time goes on. I’ve seen her quite a few times pick up my purple hat and stare at it, though._

_Write me again soon, Draco, I’ve missed you._

_\- Harry_

_Ps. I told Ron and Hermione I’m gay, and I’ve started talking about it in therapy. Not meetings, yet, but I am working up to it. I thought you would be proud. My Hogwarts delivery owl you were so kind to draw for me is now tucked inside a copy of Advanced Transfiguration. Terrible wank material, not even close to Quintessence, but I’ve now memorised a whole page of spells on household item transfiguring, so I can’t say no good has come of it._

Finally reaching the bottom on the letter and having not read a single hateful word, Draco dropped to the floor in sweet relief and laughed. Harry _missed_ him. Harry told his friends he was _gay_ . Harry was _talking about it_ in therapy. Harry wanted another letter!

Draco flopped himself back on the floor like a boneless starfish, smiling like the sun had shown out of that piece of parchment and lit up his whole flat. Maybe he was delirious. Opening his eyes, he saw two sets of very inquisitive eyes above him, watching, waiting.

He righted himself and tossed his robes on the couch so he could write his response unencumbered. He felt giddy. He felt like a lovestruck teenager getting a letter from their crush in class.

_Harry,_

_Thank you for your letter, and your forgiveness. I promise, I’m not keeping myself lonely. I see your thestral at Luna’s often, and I can feel your magic when you’ve been there, too. It feels warm. Like I’m walking through the remnants where a wildfire has burned. Ashen, full of smoke, but with life pushing up all around._

_Voileami has been around much more than I think is strictly normal for a forest dwelling omen of death in the bustling and grimy streets of London. She’s beside me now, in my flat. How is this my life? I’ve been working with Hermione on my research, but we’re no closer to discovering why than we were in the forest. Perhaps the elder wand is the missing puzzle piece. I don’t know what to believe._

_I’m happy for you that you’ve got a handle on things. And you’re right, I am proud that you’ve told Ron and Hermione. That’s wonderful._

_I’m spending a lot of time preparing for the trial and working with Hermione on top of my work at St. Mungo’s, but I will write as often as I can. This feels good._

_-Draco_

_Ps. As part of my apology and sympathies for you having had to leave Quintessence behind, I’m giving you something. You would not believe how many of them my mother sent as an olive branch, the odd woman. But, that’s a story for another time, perhaps. Hope you enjoy._

He was sending a beautifully graphic copy of _Intrinsic Immodesty: The Salacious Adventures of Gable and Herbert circa 1483_ to Harry. It was basically a pornographic picture book of two wizarding princes from different kingdoms that meet in secret to have sex in every which way possible, before battling the armies of their lands to be together.

He hoped he wasn’t be too forward, but he was feeling bold for once in his life.

___________

_May 11, 2009_

Draco was sitting in with Unice in the St. Mungo’s canteen surrounded by whispers and odd looks when he saw it. _The Daily Prophet_ had been left open on a neighbouring table and his own face was glaring back at him. It wasn’t a recent photo, it was one that had been taken after his graduation ceremony, soon after he had been spat on, so his face was twisted in the trademark scowl that made him so easily recognisable.

When Unice saw what had caught his eye, she reached over to snatch the paper off the table to see why Draco’s face was glowering at them. As she read across from him her eyebrows rose higher and higher into her hairline. Surprise and incredulity evident in every line of her face.

“Do I want to know?” Draco asked nervously, catching the unreadable glances of a gaggle of nurses passing by. He felt his back going rigid with each passing moment, each odd look that passed his way.

“It’s not… I wouldn’t…” Unice began, sounding unsure and sympathetic. Her face crinkled in concentration as she tried to decide how to say what it is she needed to say. “It could be worse.” She decided on.

“Oh.” He responded, eyes large and eyebrows high.

“I just mean that it really isn’t that bad.” She tried to placate, patting his hand. “They’ve just released the witness list for the prosecution and-”

“They what?!” Draco blurted, snatching the paper out of Unice’s hands. He knew this was going to happen but he didn’t realize that it was going to happen so _soon_. The trial was still over two weeks away. He was really hoping to live in blissful denial that it was happening at all until five minutes before he had to be in the courtroom. His eyes scanned the paper frantically, not taking in a single word. His panic had seem to magically turn the english alphabet into something illegible. All he seem to be able to do was stare at his own petulant photo.

Unice sat quietly, waiting for Draco to speak again. Finally, after managing to remember how the english language worked, he began to skim through the article. “ _In a shocking revelation late Saturday evening when the Wizengamot released their finalised witness list to the public defender… only four witnesses had come forward… most notably the notorious son of a Death Eater, Draco Lucius Malfoy (27)... had been indicted in Death Eater activities after The Second Wizarding War, but was cleared of all charges after receiving supporting testimony from The Boy Who Lived… what could an ex-Death Eater have to say against his late aunt’s husband?... other witnesses include Hestia Lamadaya, Susan Bones, and Harry Potter himself, along with his long time Auror partner, Ronald Weasley, who had both worked the Lestrange case for the past four years..._

The article continued in this vapid vein of wild speculation about what could have possibly happened to Draco that would have driven him to testify against Lestrange, followed by even wilder speculations about Harry Potter’s sudden reappearance to public life, just in time to testify.

Dropping the paper in front of him he looked up into Unice’s kind eyes. “There’s only four of us testifying…” He said dumbly. “There were supposed to be more. Ron said there were more than that.”

She gave him a sad smile. “When it comes down to it, Draco, it takes immense bravery to do what you and the others are doing by actually going through with the court proceedings.”

“I’m not brave.” Draco said obtusely, still with that flat voice and blank face.

Unice gave him an incredulous smile. “Of fucking course you are. Don’t be a berk.”

The startle of the insult broke Draco from his spiralling trance as he squawked his protests at her.

“I don’t want to hear it.” She said gently. “What you’re doing takes serious guts, and not just the trial itself. Dealing with the press is a huge added layer of stress. And we’re going to be here for you every step of the way.”

Draco felt touched by her words, even though he still didn’t quite fancy himself brave by any means. “Is that why everyone is staring at me? Wondering what secrets I have to spill?”

“Probably.” She said unconcernedly, picking at a blueberry muffin.

Draco made a pinched face and slumped in his chair, rubbing the creases on his forehead. “As if people didn’t gossip about me enough already. This is going to be a nightmare.”

“Yeah, probably.” Unice agreed. She never sugarcoated anything unless it was a biscuit. “So, now is probably a good time to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Draco asked with extreme wariness, surveying her with a furrowed brow.

“Luna asked me for your work schedule.”

“Why didn’t she ask me for it?”

“Probably because you’re a pain in the ass.” She jested.

“Oh Salazar, Unice.” He reproached. “And what did she want my schedule for?”

“She wants to make sure you’ve got enough support from all of us. We know you’ve been busy with court, and the DoM, and Mungo’s, but we want to make sure you’ve got us as well.”

“Oh.” Draco said. It was such a Luna thing to do, so sweet, so supportive, so slightly invasive. He loved it. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, just owl the woman your schedule so she can get on with her we-love-Draco-Malfoy campaign.” Unice laughed. Draco knew she found Luna odd, but captivatingly charming. He really loved his friends.

______

Draco managed to make it through rounds without incident or any comments about the newspaper article. It was on his way to his office that he ran into Sprigg, whom he spent most of his professional hours avoiding. “Healer Malfoy!” He boomed jovially at Draco, who cringed a tight smile in return and nodded.

“Sprigg.”

“Was wondering if you saw little miss Pennyfort on rounds this morning, any improvement on her curse damage?”

“Yes, I upped the bloodroot concentration in her morning dose to counteract the heavy handed use of copper that was used in the offending potion.”

“Hmm, is that wise?” Sprigg asked, a condescending tone laced in his stupid voice.

Draco did not have the patience for this today. “I certainly think so.” He said without any delicacy. “But, if you think otherwise, you’re more than welcome to reevaluate her history and reread our introductory haem textbooks from second year healer school.” Draco’s voice was professional, acquiescent sounding, demure almost, but his point couldn’t have been more clear. He might as well have just shouted _Sprigg you’re a fucking idiot stop questioning me!_

Sprigg’s smile didn’t falter but Draco could see ice crystals forming behind his eyes. Sprigg _hated_ to be contradicted, and while Draco normally was able to put on his healer mask and play the role of compliant colleague, today was not that day. He was too raw, too exposed.

“Surely you had your reasons.” He spoke genially, waving his hand randomly, but Draco stiffened all the same. “What, with the stress of the upcoming trial you’re to speak at, I’m sure you’re feeling rather distracted.”

“I assure you, sir, I am feeling nothing but a desire to do my job, and do it well.” He said cooly.

“In fact, do you think it’s wise to be working in this setting with such a public trial looming on the horizon?”

“I don’t see how this trial has anything to do with-” Draco tried to respond but Sprigg just kept going.

“I mean, is all this really worth it?”

“Is what worth what?” Draco asked, temper simmering just below the surface now.

“You’ve already gone and become a healer, a public servant if you will. I think that’s as good as you’re going to be able to do.” Sprigg said with mock sympathy.

“And what on earth does that mean?” Draco demanded.

“There’s no need to go through such extreme measures to rebuild your reputation, Healer Malfoy.” He said the word Malfoy like it was the name of a flesh eating disease. “I’m saying, you’ve done all you can to fix your public image by becoming a healer. Publicly speaking out against your uncle, and father’s old school mate, just seems to be overkill. It’s a bit transparent if you ask me. Public opinion is so fickle anyways, you should have stopped while you were ahead and just focused on your work. Your patients will suffer because of this.” Sprigg’s face was set in a falsely somber and empathic frown.

Draco was seeing red. This pompous bottom feeding urchin thought Draco was testifying to help his public image. Thought he had become a healer to fix his public image. Thought he was a danger to his patients.

“I quit.” He said simply. “I _fucking_ quit.” Turning away with fiery satisfaction from the shocked and confused face of Sprigg, Draco marched off to HR to tell them personally that he was walking out of this cesspool of ineptitudes and not coming back.

_______

After packing his office and chasing off the third HR personnel that came by to plead for him to stay by yelling “There is literally NO amount of vacation time you could offer me to stay!” down the hall at her scurrying back, he used his outtray for one last letter delivery.

_I quit my job. Maybe I’m having a midlife crisis, or maybe this is the best decision I’ve ever made. Who knows. I’m making dinner at 7, could use some support._

_-Draco_

He tapped the parchment which split into 3 separate identical letter. He addressed them to Luna, Unice, and Neville and set them in the outtray.

_______

_May 13, 2009_

The ministry was blissfully empty this early in the morning. No sideways glances, no squawks of fear, no bouts of uncontrollable sweating. Perfect.

Since The Prophet ran its article stating Draco as a witness, Ron hadn’t wanted Draco to be seen in the ministry for fear of being mobbed by reporters. So, when Ron summoned him to practice his testimony, he asked for a 6 am meeting.

Coming to Ron’s now very familiar office door, Draco could hear other voices speaking in low measured tones behind it. He stood looking at the door, feeling a little confused. They had never had others in their meetings with them, and anyways, who else would be here at 5:54am?

He rapped lightly on the door and the voices inside faltered. After the sound of scraping chairs on the floor, followed by heavy footsteps, the door was opened to reveal an exhausted and harried looking Ron.

“Malfoy.” He greeted, opening the door to invite him in, revealing two others seated in front of his desk.

“Weasley.” He nodded back. “Did I get the time wrong?” He asked, not yet moving into the room.

“Oh no, sorry, these are the other two witnesses. You remember Susan?” He gestured towards the mousy woman in a plain brown dress with frizzy blond hair and freckles. Then to the other vaguely familiar face wearing deep mauve robes with gold bangles that stood out stunningly against her dark skin, a crown of white Zinnias atop her braids. Ron continued, noting Draco’s black expression, “and this is Hestia Lamadaya. She was a few years under us.”

Draco nodded at each of them, and hesitantly stepped into the office as Hestia’s face slid into place in his memory.

Ron gestured to the remaining empty chair between the two women and Draco awkwardly shuffled to take his seat as he addressed Hestia, “Carrow, wasn’t it?” he asked, unsure of himself.

Hestia tilted her head and gave Draco a small smile. “It’s Lamadaya, now, but yes. It was Carrow.”

Draco gave her a smile in return, he could understand wanting to disassociate from a plagued name.

Ron cleared his throat and they turned to face him. Draco felt suddenly less out of sorts. “So,” Ron started, “as you’re all well aware, there are now only four witnesses, five including myself.”

“What happened?” Draco asked, feeling somehow betrayed by the lack of others willing to come forward. Why did the three of them have to go through this, and the others just got to back out?

“Well, when word first got out that we apprehended Lestrange, about a dozen people came forward, but one by one they dropped out during the questioning process. You three are all that’s left aside from Harry’s and my own auror testimony.”

“It won’t matter, Draco.” Hestia said soothingly, her purple nails brushing the top of his hand that was clenched tight on the arm of his rigid wooden chair. “He’s been a Death Eater on the run from the ministry for years. He has a rap sheet longer than Filch’s banned items at hogwarts, and there’s not a single public defender that would risk their own career trying too hard to protect him from the justice that’s due. We don’t need more witnesses than the five of us.”

Draco nodded, feeling the tension that had twisted his insides start to lessen. He hadn’t known Hestia well in school, but he felt an undeniable appreciation for her presence in this room. She was a Slytherin and child of Death Eaters. She spoke bluntly and she seemed to be someone you couldn’t push around. He felt he could like her rather a lot.

“That’s right.” Ron said. “This case is closed before it’s started, and really, this is mostly a formality to see _how_ much he can be punished for his crimes. But what I wanted to talk to you three about today is the questioning. You’ll all be administered veritaserum, and they’re not allowed to ask you questions outside of the case. We’ve practiced each of your stories and you all know the kinds of questions you’re expecting. The public defender has been given your testimonies as of Monday and they’ve sent over a list of the possible rebuttal questions. That’s what we’re going to go over today.” He looked them each in the eye to make sure they were all on the same page.

“The reason we’re doing this all together is because some points of each of your stories overlap and we want to make sure we have all of our details straight. Please let me know if anyone needs a break.”

And with that Ron dove into the interrogation, leaving Draco with no time to panic about sharing his story with two new people.

________

Draco was in awe of both Hestia and Susan by the end of their meeting with Ron. They were so strong. So clear. So seemingly unafraid of what had happened to them. So determined. Haunted yes, scarred yes. But they no longer carried fear. Hestia wore her scars without shame and spoke without flinching. When Draco faltered in his story he felt Hestia’s magic reach out to him like the vining tendrils of a morning glory, grounding him, reminding him to bloom.

Susan powered through her story with the air of having recited it a thousand times. When Ron threw a provoking question at her, she glanced down at her forearm where Draco saw a tattooed list of names. Every time she did this, she seem to be fortified by it, responding with a stronger voice that rang through the room.

When they were done, Susan nodded her goodbyes and swept from the room without a backward glance. Ron said his own farewell and closed his office door behind Hestia and Draco as they made their way to the lifts together. Draco felt completely enamoured by Hestia. After they had heard one another’s story, they seemed to draw strength from each other during the interrogation process. He’d never felt that kind of camaraderie with anyone before and, seeing how far down the path of recovery she was made him feel hopeful in a new and beautiful way.

Hestia looped her arm into Draco’s and he felt himself smile. She was quiet and safe feeling. “Let’s have dinner next week, Draco.”

“Dinner?” He felt himself blush furiously. He always felt so out of sorts with new people, always so confused when people seemed to like him.

“Yes. Dinner. We’re one in the same you and I, more dragon than serpent. I think we could be good friends.” She smelled like cinnamon and dirt, and she reminded him, strangely, of Neville. Safe and inviting, surrounded by blossoms.

“Okay, dinner.”


	8. Dopamine, A Fickle Friend

##  Dopamine, A Fickle Friend

May 02, 2009

Harry sat with his feet up on his yellow armchair in the corner, one tucked to his side and the other resting on the frayed fabric of the arm, his legs rather suggestively spread in old and tattered sweatpants, but he was too annoyed to care. Not annoyed, per se. He was stressed. Confused. Struggling. Something was eating at him. It had been all morning.

The conversation was pinging around the circle of nine now very familiar faces without him noticing, engaging, participating. His features were schooled into a dark and turbid mix of irritation and ire. His foot that was draped over the arm of his chair was jangling distractingly. 

“Harry.” Luna’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard, and he glowered at her, waiting for her to prompt him into a response. He knew he was being unfair, childish, unnecessary. He did, he really did know it, but everything else was raking along his skin and the darkness was curling around his gut, lapping at him and making him feel so unsteady, so unsure of his hold of sobriety, for the first time in ages. His shoulders were impossibly tight. He felt like fighting.

“Talk to us, Harry. That’s the point of meetings. We’re here to help you through this part."

Luna wasn’t smiling, but she was soft, and warm, and terribly nice and Harry pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and tried to shake off the anger that had been layering itself over his skin. 

“I’m overwhelmed.” He finally said, not knowing how else to start. He’d been so good in meetings recently, talking about minimising his stress and taking care of himself in other ways, constantly choosing to prioritise his needs. He still hadn’t gone out in public, he didn’t answer owls he didn’t recognise, and he didn’t even read the Daily Prophet, which was apparently still speculating on him and his sanity. 

He’d been proud of himself, he’d felt capable these last few months. He’d attended all his meetings and he’d made efforts in solo therapy to delve into why his life had made him so miserable and what he could do to keep himself honest and committed to his own happiness going forward. Hell, he’d come out of the closet to people close to him, even. Why, now, was this happening? Why was he feeling hunted by the sickest parts of himself, the parts he had tried so hard to soothe and stow away? He picked at his dirty fingernails as he spoke. He’d been in the garden saying hello to his thestral and weeding one of the marigold beds before they’d convened. 

“That much is more than clear,” said Sylvia’s voice from his right. “You look like you’re back to one day sober and ready to crawl out of your own skin.” 

Harry huffed, still looking down at his dirty hands. She was right. And, what’s worse is that she knew exactly what she was talking about. For all the differences in the lives that Harry and Sylvia had led, both of them had been seduced by the painkilling powers of heroin. 

“I know. But, I’m as sober as I’ve been all these months. I just am having this horrible resurgence of that feeling - not being able to be comfortable in my skin - wanting to hide, wanting to drown. I just, I don’t know what’s prompting it. Whenever this happens it just makes me feel sick, and I just hate it. I hate every second of it.” He stopped fussing with his fingers and moved them to each side of the chair, clawing at the yellow armrests, and leaned his head back with his eyes closed as he spoke. 

Sylvia reached across from her own perch, a high backed white wooden kitchen chair with a woven wicker seat, and patted his hand, which was taught and gripping the fraying fabric of the ancient chair. It had been months since she had raised quite the eyebrow at his scars. Her many rings and bangles felt cool and soothing against his feverish skin. He looked across to her and let out a sigh, giving her a weak smile. 

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Please, it’s not like we all don’t know the feeling. Dopesick or dying for a drink, pleading for escape - it’s familiar stuff for this bunch.” Sylvia’s kindness took the edge away, and Harry felt himself relax for the first time since they had gathered. Nods around the circle reassured him. Dennis was smiling from a half circle leather chair next to the fireplace, his hands steepled in front of his chest, perhaps to suppress his tremor. 

“When did the feeling start?” Luna asked, and Harry knew she was gearing up to get to the bottom of it, whether he was ready to or not. 

“As soon as I woke up this morning it was on me. Though, it’s almost felt like it’s been hanging around for a few days before this, just not as bad.” 

“Did something happen? Did you dream about something?” Luna’s face was professionally impassive, but Harry’s cheeks instantly darkened and he pulled his sprawled legs back toward himself, at her completely innocuous question. 

He  _ had _ been dreaming. He had woken up groaning face down into his pillow, hips pressed down, achingly hard and cock slick with precome, images of Draco holding him down, sliding his cock against his ass, kissing along his spine, each press of his lips followed by the whisper of his name. It had been absolutely decadently sinful, full of lust and abject hedonism, and Harry had reached down to tug at his cock, coming to the thought of the feel of Draco’s skin against his, of the way Harry’s name was a plea, desperate and wanton. 

Harry was snapped back from the memory of the dream by Hestia’s soft voice, “It was sex, wasn’t it? You were dreaming about sex.” She was sitting with her legs folded beneath her on her purple settee, wearing a floor length but simple flowing white dress, but no shoes this time, her crown full of daisies. 

Harry blinked, the blush on his cheeks spreading down his neck and making him feel like the collar of his shirt was just a bit too tight, though it had been absolutely fine moments ago. He nodded, appreciating how Hestia could be so blunt, but in a way that made him feel safer, less ashamed. He knew she wouldn’t shy away from whatever he brought to the circle.

“Do you think it’s what’s made you feel like this? So many of us here focus so hard on never letting ourselves have any pleasure because we associate that feeling of pleasure with being sick - we don’t trust ourselves to enjoy anything without it being wrong and dangerous.” She was watching him, her amber eyes bright and clear and full of reassurance. Harry could feel her reaching out to him from across the little circle, and her magic was there, so soft and subtle and gentle like a hanging mist after the rain, clean and full of promise. 

“When we eventually succumb to the desire for sex, some addicts often become overwhelmed with guilt. We think we’ve relapsed.” 

Harry nodded at her, too overwhelmed to speak. She had put words to it, the feeling that he was bad and wrong, that he couldn’t trust himself with pleasure, with surrender, with allowing himself to experience something that felt so close to the gentle fall into the bath of honey, something that took him away from his tenuous grasp on control and surrendered him to the space between conscious and unconscious. 

“It hasn’t happened to me before, and I’ve spent a whole year sober. Why is this happening now? Am I not ever going to be able to enjoy sex? Even thinking about sex?” Harry was panicking a bit, and his voice was full of a tremor he was too startled to try to hide. There was no space for embarrassment next to the dread that was building.

Luna was the one to answer him this time, sitting back in her red, high backed chair in front of the fireplace - which was never lit - and pulling her blonde hair back into an artful twisting bun, secured with a red hat pin. 

“Harry, this is something you’ll have to moderate yourself as you move forward in your recovery. That all of you will likely face in the future. Only you will know if you’re trading one addiction for another, indulging in something to cure your pain or having healthy boundaries with your biological urges. Dopamine is a fickle friend and a frightening foe, and unfortunately it controls all of our sense of pleasure and reward - both entirely normal as well as pathological.” 

She smiled kindly at Harry, trying to soften the blow that, after all this time and years of thinking he would never have a healthy sex life, here he was again - facing the worry that the petit mort was just another way for Harry to feed his demons. 

“There is nothing wrong with enjoying sex, Harry. Don’t think this is a lecture on how you’re never going to feel pleasure again. You will. You are allowed to. You just have to know when you are spiraling. Much like any other person who has any other needs they have to monitor.” 

“Okay.” Harry said softly, his arms now wrapped around his knees, which were pulled to his chest. Sylvia was gently rubbing his arm, as if to tell him to hang in there. 

“As for the question about why is this happening now, if it hasn’t been a problem before -  well, it could be that you were so focused on the pleasure being part of something healthy and good in your life that you didn’t associate it with any feelings of guilt, or maybe now you’re under more stress from other areas that are making you feel more vulnerable to your tendency to avoid difficult situations?” 

Harry stared back at Luna. “Both. Easily both.” 

“Well, I’m glad we could discuss this - it’s not only a common issue that many people in recovery may face at one point or another, but it’s often shrouded in so much stigma and shame we avoid talking about it, even in groups like this one. Does anyone else experience something similar and would like to discuss it?” 

Felix, a recovering methamphetamine user who had gotten sober around the same time as Harry, though was a few years younger, had raised his hand to answer. He didn’t often speak in meetings, preferring to nod along and reassure others that what they had said was valid and important. 

“Sometimes I worry that I’m enjoying something too much. That I am getting too excited. That I shouldn’t be this happy. That if I let myself get too up, I’ll start hallucinating again.” He said the words with a deadpan from the forest green beanbag across from Harry, and Harry’s heart went out to him. Felix had been referred to Luna’s group after a drug induced psychotic episode refused to abate, and had kept him in a mental health facility for months. As far as Harry was aware, he was still living at the facility and heavily medicated to keep his hallucinations and delusions at bay. He often lay the whole meeting on his beanbag, as if disconnected from the discussion, only to chime in with something insightful toward the end, something that would tie everyone and everything together beautifully. 

The group spent the rest of their time reassuring Felix, folding him in to their supportive and caring embrace, as he had often done for them. Harry left the meeting feeling calm and reassured. 

___________________

May 03, 2009

It was the following morning that Harry received Draco’s third letter. 

He had left Luna’s yesterday feeling so much better, reassured, but still with so many questions. His individual therapy session with her afterward had been intense. Probably the most intense, yet, really. 

How was he supposed to mitigate this balance between pleasure and mistrust of his own brain? How would he walk the line between enjoyment and indulgence in something harmful? It had made sense, what Luna had described, the link between dopamine, pleasure and reward, in other words, addiction, and sex, which often accessed and stimulated the same parts of his brain that drove him to toward a sense of oblivion in the first place. 

This last year was the first time in Harry’s life he had started feeling positively about sex, about pleasure, about understanding that he did have desires that he wanted to fulfil, and now, here he was, feeling shy of his own inability to control himself. His struggle to remain clean and removed from indulgence. It was true that he’d sought out much fewer orgasms since he had left the forest, not being so stimulated by Draco’s constant presence, but he still felt immense urges piling up, nipping at him, scratching at his skin in ways that made him feel restless and uneasy, another feeling that mimicked the horrendous torture of withdrawals. 

Harry glared down into his porridge. He had to find a way to soothe his perfectly normal hypothalamus and, at the same time, shush his rather eccentric and often impish nucleus accumbens. That’s how Luna had put it, anyway, when they had discussed the matter further in his appointment with her. She had suggested limiting himself to an orgasm every few days. Harry had stared at her, completely blank. What an absolute nightmare. Seriously, by the time he figured out sobriety, there would be nothing that could possibly ever embarrass him. 

“Morning Dipper.” Harry said through a mouthful of porridge, the black owl dropping a letter and a package unceremoniously on the table, hooting and flapping his wings, knocking over Harry’s half drunk orange juice, which he vanished with a twitch of his hand, without even thinking. 

“Well you’re in an especially good mood, aren’t you?” Harry said, laughing at the bird’s antics and rubbing his knuckles by his cheek with great affection. 

“Draco must be spoiling you.” He said, now softly, not wanting his voice to carry outside the kitchen, where he had been enjoying his early breakfast alone. 

Harry picked up the letter and read it, then reread it, his cheeks warm and a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, a laugh in his throat. His porridge was pushed to the side, now forgotten and soggy. 

Draco’s words across the bit of parchment, the parchment that even smelled of him, lemon with some herbal component, was warming Harry immensely, making him think of all of those mornings waking up next to him. 

After their parting in the forest, Harry had been heartbroken, but he could see now that the months of quiet had been good for both of them, because they had things they needed to work on things that took up nearly all of Harry’s energy and emotional wellbeing, even on a good day. And now, with the trial, he could imagine Draco was taught as a wire. Neither of them had been ready. 

This Draco though, this man who had written this sweet little note and sent him something kind and thoughtful. Perhaps this was a man Harry could fall for all over again, in the real world, and with the skills to make it last. 

Harry caught himself running his fingers over the finely formed letters across the page, imagining Draco writing it with Voileami at his side, agonising over the choice of each word. 

He was still smirking to himself at the thought when a crash immediately to his left made him jump out of his chair. 

“Dipper, you menace!” Harry half laughed the scolding he was meant to give, as the little owl tried to extract himself from the bowl of porridge and milk he had knocked over, obviously desperate to sneak a serving for himself. 

Harry chuckled while he waved the mess away, turning his attention to the package that had just escaped getting doused. 

What could Draco have sent him? What could Draco’s mother have sent him to send to Harry, even more curiously? Hopefully this wasn’t some horrid heirloom that may or may not be cursed or responsible for murders. He did used to be an auror, after all. 

Unwrapping the object, Harry was startled to find a beautiful white leather bound book with gold vines and floral designs all around the cover. It did not look nearly as ominous and foreboding as the large black books that Narcissa had sent while they were in the forest (Harry had done his best to absolutely abolish the memory of “Rites of a Pureblood Household” and it’s gruesome pictographs, though the smell of vinegar and dead slugs had been difficult to forget). 

Harry opened the obviously ancient book carefully, handwritten ink of the title page appearing as he pulled back the cover.

 

 

_ Intrinsic Immodesty: The Salacious Adventures of Gable and Herbert _

_ Erotic Stories and Accompanying Art  _

_ by Thomas Parr  _  
  
  
  


_ Goshawk Publishing _

_ London, 1483 _

  
  
  


_ For Wizarding Folk of the Gayest Sort _

  
  


Harry nearly choked at the last line to appear. He flipped further into the rather thick novel to find magical illustrations of reddened, painfully erect penises being fellated with vigor, men spread open as their lover licked slow and sadistically around the rim of their spread ass. 

He promptly shut the book. 

Harry pulled Draco’s letter back toward himself and flipped it over, summoning a pot of ink and quill from the living room without even looking up. The quill flew right into his hand and he dabbed the inkpot quickly to scribble onto the back of the page. 

_ Draco, _

_ Are you trying to kill me? Did you struggle to pick your poison and decide to go with both embarrassment when Ron, or god forbid Hermione(!), finds this later or with sheer absolute wanton horniness? I don’t think my cock has ever gotten that hard that fast.  _

_ Don’t tell me where this came from. I don’t want to know why your mother had it or why she gave it to you - or how I’m now sitting with what looks like deliciously gay erotica from the Malfoy family vault that’s making me absolutely indecent in my friend’s kitchen on this otherwise innocent and innocuous Saturday morning. You’re lucky it didn’t arrive when all of them were at the table with me. Godrick, Draco. What exactly are you trying to do to me?  _

_ Just yesterday I had to agree to an orgasm schedule, and now you send me this? I think I might actually just die, rather. All that talk in meetings about resisting temptation? Was it training for this moment?  _

_ I’ll have to think of something just as devious to send to you. Come, tell me, what are your secrets? You’ve clearly got me all figured out - Quintessence was my Achilles heel and here you come with this - Draco… I’m a newly gay man with a very vivid imagination and lots of free time and did I mention I have an orgasm schedule? I’m being limited in my pleasures to make sure I’m not just slaving to hedonism in a new and less illegal way.  _

_ I’m going to run and put this book away somewhere safe, secure and secret. And we’re not going to speak of it again, lest I ruin whatever tenuous hold I have on my libido, understood?  _

_ Salazar himself would be proud of you, for you are devious and delinquent and I will not be able to think of anything else but you and your plans for me.  _

_ \- Harry  _

_ Ps. Thank you.  _

Harry shoved the book back in it’s box and hurried upstairs, Little Dipper chirping and flying along behind him. He would have to hide it away, for now, but the fact that Draco had sent it bubbled up in his chest and kept him smiling all of the day. 

______________

May 27, 2009

Harry had disillusioned himself thoroughly and walked quickly through the ministry lobby, his head down and watching the patent leather dress shoes Hermione had ordered for him. She had put his whole look together, actually, ordered from a wizarding wardrobe catalog, The Red Cap Haberdasher. His dark grey three piece suit and overlying black robes were sombre and gave the impression he was professional, clear headed and collected. 

She had insisted on a dark green tie to offset his eyes, and the ornate silver buttons on his waistcoat featured winged lions, the only hint that the ensemble was worn by a Gryffindor. Harry had tried on some of the older suits and robes he’d once worn for court cases in the days before, but they had been tight and uncomfortable, his frame much larger than it had been in those troubled times. 

Plus, if Harry was honest, he was feeling incredibly nervous to be seen in public again, to be photographed and critiqued, to speak in front of the Wizengamot and perhaps to answer questions about his long absence and subsequent departure from the Aurors. He hoped no one asked. He had prepared an answer, just in case, asking them to focus on the issue at hand and resist the temptation to enquire about his personal life. 

It was early still, long before the trial was set to start, and his shoes clipped across the marble tiles of the Ministry entryway. He shuffled up to the lifts, which were thankfully empty, and rode the rickety elevator down to the courtrooms below. On the way down, he smirked to himself, remembering the repartee he and Draco had shared in this very lift all those months ago. Back when Harry was still in the grips of a downward spiral, and Malfoy had been by to bail Greg out for drunken disorderly. The memory to Harry was crystal clear, Draco’s features sharp and cold, his voice full of his trademark sneer. He laughed to himself as the lift left him to find his way to courtroom B. 

As he entered, Harry recognised the large room as the same that had held many of the major trials just after the war. And even before that, the same room that had witnessed the sentencing of Barty Crouch Jr, Bellatrix and the two Lestranges after they had tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom into insanity. Rabastan and Bellatrix had died in the final battle of Hogwarts, so it was just Rudolphus left now. The last of them to remain free. 

It was empty still at this early hour, and Harry walked around the circular room, the chair in the middle of the sunken floor that would soon hold Rudolphus. He traced his fingers around the bannister that separated the three sections of onlookers. The far bank of wooden benches was reserved for Wizengamot members. 

These days, Percy Weasley presided as chief warlock, a role that provided the perfect outlet for his immense neuroticism and obsessive love of law and order. Not to mention his absolutely inability to show favouritism of any kind. Percy had been nominated as the youngest chief warlock in modern history, and no one had questioned the hundreds of decisions he had presided over, each was measured and fair, thoughtful and considered. 

The row of benches on the left of the shrouded entryway from the cells below was marked off for family members, spectators and other interested parties. Closest to the entrance on this third was a special area for members of the press. It afforded the best view of both the wizengamot and the witness stand, which was the final third on the right of the entryway. 

Harry climbed up into the third row of the witness area, sitting down on the creaky and splintered benches, seemingly older than time, and laid his hands in his lap. He had gone over his testimony plenty of times with Ron - his was rather straightforward. He was simply to discuss his role on the Lestrange case before he left the Aurors, give testimony on the horrendous nature of Lestrange’s curses, killings and his unrepentant bloodlust, one that often left innocent muggles in his wake. 

Ron had mentioned that Susan Bones was testifying, and Harry shuddered even now at the memory of what she was there to discuss. After Susan had left school in their sixth year, just after she had received the news her mother had been killed, she had started a safehouse for muggle born witches and wizards, reinforced with the ancient magic of the Bones family home, a place her mother had layered protection over before her death. 

After the war, Susan had continued to provide refuge for those who had lost their families, their homes, their sense of safety - it was well known throughout Britain as a place for those who had suffered much in the war to regain their foothold and find others they could grieve along with. 

It was a year or so after Susan had started her work as a secretary in the DMLE that Lestrange, along with his new following of purists, had found the house of Bones. They hadn’t been able to penetrate the wards, but Lestrange, in his sickness, managed to break into the water supply to the house, replacing the water that flowed to the taps with his trademark blood curdling potion. Six muggle born witches and wizards had died before Susan came home that night. She found them, some still twitching and gurgling in the pools of blood flowing from their eyes, noses and mouths. The house of Bones has been empty since, and Susan moved in with Hannah Abbott in Dovetown, never to offer a place of comfort again. 

Harry was pulled back from the memories of those dark days after the war by the sound of voices and footsteps, heralding the arrival of  the other witnesses, spectators and wizengamot members. Harry cast a notice-me-not charm quickly, just in time for robed witches and wizards to come filing through the dark entryway. 

Harry watched each person as they trekked into their appointed third of the great circular room. He was surprised to see Pansy Parkinson, hand in hand with Blaise Zabini, both in dark suits, Pansy wearing bright red lipstick under her styled black veil. Behind them came Theo Nott and Flora Carrow, twin to Hestia, who had not retaken her grandmother’s maiden name of Lamadaya, as Hestia had. 

Hestia had explained it’s Somali origin one night after a meeting, both of them sipping cold cups of tea in the warm evening, her hands dancing over the moonflower vines in Luna’s garden, big blue and yellow flowers blossoming beneath her touch. It had meant “not to be looked at”, and Harry felt guilty that he hadn’t been able to look away, for she had mastered the art of reclaiming, of drawing everything beautiful toward herself, coating herself in nothing but the grace of her name. 

Flora, her twin, lacked all of Hestia’s gentleness. Her spine was perfectly straight, her head high and her chin angled up, decidedly haughty. As her gaze swept around the room, her tight posture gave the distinct impression she was looking down on everything around her. She slipped behind the other three Slytherins to the spectator section of the benches, and perched herself between Pansy and Theo. Her nails, painted black like her sister’s, were clutched in her lap. A white oleander lay pinned to her jacket lapel. 

Hermione and Ron entered the room together, Hermione leaning to kiss Ron on the cheek before she split from him to sit in the spectators area, while Ron turned and shuffled down the third row toward Harry. Harry’s notice-me-not charm was so strong, even Ron seemed oblivious to his presence, and Harry let it be for the time being, wanting the stands to fill more before he revealed himself amongst the crowd. 

Hermione had just sat down when Luna and Greg entered, Luna’s deep purple robes a contrast to the black and grey of the other attendees - spotting Hermione by herself, Luna half dragged Greg over to her, hugging and kissing Hermione on the cheek. Harry smiled to himself. Luna could bring joy to any occasion. 

The stands were so full, Harry was having a hard time keeping track of everyone he recognised from his Hogwarts days. Dean and Seamus had arrived together and both sat in the top corner of the spectators section, closely followed by Lavender Brown. Astoria and Daphne Greengrass had joined the other Slytherins in the meantime as well, their faces stony and resolute. 

Professors McGonagall and Sprout took the front row seats in front of the Slytherins. They both were dressed in sombre dark tones, Pomona in charcoal grey and Minerva in a deep forest green set of robes. They both had serious expressions on their faces, and Harry reveled in seeing them there.  

Harry felt his disillusionment charm wearing off, and checked the press box quickly to see who had been assigned to cover the trial for the Prophet. To his immense relief, he saw Dennis Creevey was seated in the front, a press badge on his jacket and a large flashbulb camera at his side. In the immediate aftermath to his relief came crushing dread. Romilda Vane sat one row behind and to his right, sucking on her quill, her own camera on top of her obnoxiously bright fuschia bag. She was often behind the gossiping, outlandish and highly speculative romantic advice column that more often that not featured Harry, and he had never lost the absolute hatred he had cultivated for her in their school days. Dread pooled deep in his gut. He would have to do something about her, and soon. 

His attentions were undeniably drawn to the entryway, however, when he saw a familiar shock of white blonde hair trailing behind Hestia’s voluminous, curly locks, conspicuous to Harry for their lack of flower crown. She was leading Draco by the hand into the first row of the witness box, and Harry lost sight and sound of all else in the room. Draco was here. He was here in front of him, not a meter away, in a perfectly tailored light grey suit, his robes draped around his shoulders. Hestia was still holding his hand, and around both their wrists were twisted braids of  bright green garlic leaves, tough and full of bravery. 

Harry’s heart was pounding in his chest, his magic light and full of joy, twisting around him. He didn’t want to disturb Draco, distract him, he and Hestia made quite a pair, and he could see they were here together to close a chapter in both their lives, with finality, because they had lives to live outside of the horrors. He was proud of both of them. 

Ron finally noticed Harry and slid closer to him, nudging his side gently with his elbow. 

“Mate, your magic.” He said softly into his ear. 

“Oh, yeah thanks.” Harry said, pulling his gaze from Draco. He took a deep breath and reigned himself in, concentrating on stowing and controlling the prickling sensation within his hands, for now. He scanned the crowd again, smiling to himself at Neville with his grandmother, who’s large vulture hat was now obstructing the view of a small ministry witch he didn’t recognise. At last, Susan Bones had slid into the witness box, and the Wizengamot seemed properly seated and arranged. Percy, in his chief warlock robes of pastel blue, was standing at his designated bench, calling for order, setting out final reminders to the press to remain silent and for spectators to resist from any commentary, jeering or unnecessary facial expression. 

“It’s Harry Potter!” came Romilda’s high pitched screech. She was pointing from her perch in the press box over at Harry, a ripple going through the assembled crowd. Harry felt everyone’s eyes fall upon him, his charmwork falling away at the attentions of so many. He sighed, leaning back against the wooden bench, schooling his face into a relaxed expression, his hands still laying in his lap. 

He focused down on his magic and sent it out across the room, quiet and stealthy, to suck the ink from all of the quills and ink bottles in Romilda’s bag, overexposing all of the film in her camera and disconnecting the flash of the irritating contraption. She had grabbed for her camera at once to start snapping away, only to glower in frustration that it didn’t appear to be working. Harry smiled to himself as he shifted in his seat, the whispering muttering of the crowd rippling around the room. At least that was sorted. She wouldn’t be writing a word or snapping a single garish shot the whole morning. Dennis smirked from his seat below her. 

Percy had cleared his throat and grabbed his wand to cast a silencing charm. At least Percy didn’t show a moments interest at all in the comings and goings of Harry Potter. 

Harry dropped his gaze to Draco, who had turned in his seat to look behind him at Romilda’s outburst. Harry smiled at him, just fractionally and for only a half of a single moment, before turning back to Percy, who was introducing the Wizengamot, then Lestrange. Harry could hear the jingling of heavy chains as DMLE agents began filing into the room. Draco turned in his seat as the prisoner was brought to the chair in the centre of the floor. 


	9. Hiss Hiss

Hiss Hiss

May 27, 2009 

 

“It’s Harry Potter!” That irritating bint’s voice cut straight through Draco’s anxiety, and he simply couldn’t help himself, turning in his chair to seek Harry out. He knew Harry would be here today, but when he didn’t see his shock of wild black hair upon entering the courtroom, he had tried to push it out of his mind. But, there he sat, just two rows behind Draco, his flashing green eyes trained on Romilda, taking deep calming breaths. 

Draco took advantage of the fact that everyone else in the dimly lit room was also staring at Harry, trying to get a good look at their absent hero. Draco’s hungry gaze feasted on him for as long as he could, drinking him in. Harry looked good, even in this dismal dungeon. Better than good. Draco’s magic reached out to him without permission, longing for contact. Whoever dressed him, he supposed it must have been Granger, deserved an award. Good lord, Draco had never seen him look so healthy, so in control of his magic.

After a moment of trying to remember every detail of him, from his nearly tamed hair, his brown skin, his grey suit, down to the way he was seated, one arm now up and draped across the bench, exuding relaxed and reserved confidence. It was then that Harry turned his eyes from the press box in the corner and onto Draco. He felt his heart leap into his throat as he allowed those green eyes to burn into him before Harry cocked him a ghost of a smile, and turned away to face Percy. 

The sounds of the rest of the room finally filtered back into Draco’s brain. Remembering why exactly he was sitting in this courtroom dungeon with a dapper Harry behind him, he moved to face the darkened antechamber, just as Percy cast a silencing charm on the assembly, and the clanking of chains grew louder. 

Draco stiffened, straightening his spine against the ancient wooden slat bench, watching the sickeningly familiar sight of Rodolphus Lestrange being led into the circular pit at the nadir of the courtroom and chained to the interrogation seat before him. He felt Hestia’s firm hand on his, grounding him. He reminded himself that this experience was finite. No matter how awful it was going to be, it would eventually end. It would be over. Lestrange had already done the worst he could do to Draco, he had no power here. 

Despite Percy’s silencing charm, a low rumble of hissing from the spectator section had broken the heavy and ominous atmosphere that had settled on the courtroom when Lestrange had entered. Draco couldn’t help looking over, the familiar chant of Slytherin dissent tugging his heart strings. Seeing the entire assembly in the spectator section for the first time, he found himself momentarily stunned to see the small horde of Slytherins and, with the greatest shock of all, his mother, all hissing vociferously at Lestrange. 

He hadn’t spoken about the trial with his mother at all, didn’t think he could stand to have her hear the things he needed to say. But, despite all of that, and despite their tenuous history together, her presence was achingly comforting. She was his mother, after all. 

“That’s enough, that’s enough.” Percy said imperiously, casting his silencing charm again, neatly cutting the tail of the building hiss. Draco continued to watch his mother amongst the Slytherins in shock. Pansy, who’s dark winged eyeliner he could just barely make out beneath her wickedly fashionable veil, winked at him when he caught her gaze, before turning her hardened expression back to Lestrange, her venomous red lipstick accenting her scowl. Narcissa continued to glare at the defendant in chains, hatred in her eyes. 

Draco turned himself to face the front of the courtroom, where the cushioned and far more comfortable benches of the Wizengamot were arranged. He was feeling distinctly off balance- everyone he loved was in this room supporting him and the other victims, yet, he was so exposed, vulnerable. The thought was nearly overwhelming. 

He squeezed Hestia’s hand, their garlic leaf bracelets momentarily pressed together, and pooled all of his strength to cement his mask of cool indifference. He wouldn’t let Lestrange see him as anything but immensely powerful, decidedly in control.

After much paper shuffling and whispered acknowledgements with the witch to his left, Percy finally cleared his throat. “All parties being present, we’re ready to begin. Are you ready Vance?” He called to the scribe down the bench. 

“Ready, sir.” Answered a meek voice, quill quivering in anticipation in a pale and veiny hand of the minuscule wizard.

“Right, then. Criminal Hearing for Rodolphus Lestrange on the 27th of May for the following; Multiple violations of the  Muggle Protection Act of 1992, namely torture and murder by use of the illegal Blood Curdling Curse. Multiple violations of the Statute of War Crimes of the International Confederation of Wizards, namely joining an illegal terrorist organisation and using sexual assault and rape as a weapon. Additionally, there are numerous occasions of breaching the International Statute of Secrecy when participating in Death Eater exploits and subsequent criminal activities.” He paused to allow Vance to catch up.

“Interrogators; Percy Ignatius Weasley Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Kingsley Shacklebolt Minister of Magic, and Angelina Johnson of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Court scribe, Doyle Vance. Witness for the defense, none forthcoming. Public Defender Zacharias Smith. Witness for the prosecution; Ronald Bilius Weasley, Harry James Potter, Hestia Lamadaya, Susan Bones, and Draco Lucius Malfoy. ”

Draco stared down at Lestrange, who lolled his head to the right to leer at himself and Hestia at the mention of their names. Bile rose in his throat, but he held his mask in place. He was untouchable.

The room was silent save for the echoing of Percy’s well trained voice and the monotonous scratch of Vance’s quill. Draco could feel Harry’s magic responding to Lestrange’s wandering gaze. Dangerous and electric. It singed the back of Draco’s neck hairs like an impending lightning strike. He drew in a deep breath and imagined his own magic like a blanket, wrapping around the witness box. Protecting all of them inside it from Lestrange. 

He felt when Harry recognised it and pulled his own magic back in, sheepishly regaining control. Draco took strength from it. Even in this position of immense vulnerability, he could feel his own control and power asserting itself. This was his moment of bravery. 

He focused back on Percy’s voice, “For the charge of escaping Azkaban to join an illegal terrorist organisation known as the Death Eaters, how do you plead?”

“Guilty.” Smith’s irritating voice answered. Draco wondered if Lestrange would speak at all during the proceedings. If they’d even have to testify. If he would just go down quietly. 

“In the case of torturing and murdering muggles during the course of the Second Wizarding War as a part of an illegal terrorist organisation, how do you plead?”

“Guilty.” Smith answered again. 

“In the case of poisoning and the use of the illegal blood curdling curse on muggles, muggleborns, and members of the auror department, how do you plead?”

“Guilty-”

“I’m not guilty!” Lestrange’s disused voice, cracked vehemently. 

_ Sssssss Hisssss Sssss…  _ broke out around the room. The Slytherins made their displeasure known. Percy lazily flicked his wand, silencing the room without comment, his brow deeply wrinkled in frustration.

Draco sighed. It had been too much to hope that any of them would be spared their testimony. He could sense, rather than see, Susan’s fury. He felt Hestia’s magic now, weaving with his to strengthen the blanket of magic over the five of them. Draco fiddled with the braided garlic on his wrist and wrestled with his boggart. 

“Very well,” said Percy in an impatiently resigned voice, “witness for the prosecution on the charge of poisoning and the use of the illegal blood curdling curse on muggles, muggleborns, and members of the auror department; the court calls Ronald Bilius Weasley, Harry James Potter, and Susan Bones. Please stand.”

The three of them stood in the witness box and Draco just focused on his breathing and magic. 

“The court will now administer veritaserum for the purpose of the testimony. Let me remind the court that questions will be limited to these specific cases. Past criminal activity from prior to the Azkaban breakout is inadmissible.”

A woman in DMLE that Draco hadn’t noticed stood up next to the witness box and administered one drop of veritaserum to the three witnesses. 

“Please start the timer. If the questioning has not commenced in 60 minutes we will recess to allow time between doses for the safety of the witnesses, if-”

But Percy was cut off from speaking by a startlingly shrill voice, “Harry Potter, where have you been for the last year?!” Draco spun in his seat to see the look of outright rage on Harry’s face as he struggled to hold his truths in.

“Ms. Vane, that is completely out of the question!” Boomed Percy. “The use of veritaserum in a Death Eater criminal trial is not the opportunity for the Daily Prophet-”

“The forest!” Harry finally blurted, unable to hold it in anymore. He was sweating with the effort it took to keep it in, he looked furious. Draco sagged with relief. Thank fuck, that was all that came out. He could kill Romilda. 

Percy cast a personal silencing charm at Romidla before she could squeak out another utterance. “One more word from you, Ms. Vane, and you’ll be facing your own criminal court case for abusing court proceedings and interrupting justice. Mr. Potter is here as a witness, not as the focus of your report. This is your final warning.” He nodded to members of the DMLE standing by and they moved closer to the reporting box. Dennis Creevey looked unnerved, but Romilda looked absolutely predatory with the way she continued to gape at Harry. She was practically vibrating with the energy it was taking to hold her tongue. 

After the initial drama of Romilda’s outburst, the questioning went on seamlessly. Harry, Ron, and Susan answered their questions from the three interrogators and Smith in under and hour. Draco couldn’t follow the question and answers, but instead let himself sink into the sound of Harry’s voice when he spoke. Felt the comforting addition of his magic to the blanket around them. He started when Percy banged his gavel and announced they were prepared to vote on the charges before moving on to the next one. 

The vote was unanimous. Guilty. On to the next. They went through each charge and Lestrange pleaded guilty for every one of them, resigned to his fate. Until the very last one. 

“And finally, in the case of sexual assault and use of rape as a weapon of war, how do you plea?”

Before Smith could even open his mouth, Lestrange said with a strong voice, eyes trained on Draco, “Not guilty.” 

His voice was insolent. Taunting. The responding hiss from the crowd was only one or two people, but as the seconds wore on the hissing from the assembly grew to near deafening. It wasn’t just Slytherins, either. Looking away from Lestrange, Draco could see Luna, Neville, and even Neville’s grandmother adding to the swell of sound. He could see McGonagall and Sprout. He could even see members of the Wizengamot, unable to maintain the visage of unbiased, hissing along with the crowd. Percy couldn’t seem to silence the reverberating note of disgust and dissent, and resorted to banging his gavel. This seemed to make the hecklers more persistent. 

Looking around, Draco caught Harry’s eye again, he too was hissing unashamedly. Hestia squeezed his hand, bringing his attention back to the front, and leaned in to whisper, “hiss hiss.” 

At that, Draco gave a genuine smile into her shoulder. The thunderous disapproval of Lestrange appeared to make him shrink in his chair. As a Slytherin, Lestrange would feel how thoroughly he was being shamed and ostracised by his own house, one that had filled these horrid wooden benches more than any other. The same house that once helmed the disturbing ideology for which he had fought and killed and tortured.

Percy’s gavel banging eventually cut through the noise, and once again the room fell into a ominous silence. The torches flickered on the walls, and everyone waited while Percy shuffled through another stack of papers.

When Draco and Hestia were called to stand, they did so on sturdy feet. They accepted their dose of veritaserum and they answered every question fired at them. Draco glared down at Lestrange through every single second of it. Not breaking eye contact. Hestia continued to hold his hand and she did the same. They stood together, telling their story in unashamed detail. Even though veritaserum was helping to pull the words out, Draco felt like he could have told the story just as accurately without it. Standing here, in front of the man that haunted his dreams, he  _ wanted _ to tell it. Wanted everyone to know how sick and wrong Lestrange was. How deserving of justice.  

He vaguely registered Romilda scribbling furiously, with a quill she seemed to have nicked from an irate Dennis, the sound of someone sniffling in the spectator stand, and of Harry’s ever present magic. Soothing, comforting. Warm, like the sun. 

It felt surreal. To be standing there in a room of people, spilling his darkest horrors. He felt remotely detached. As if he was floating above his body, watching it happen. 

“That was the last time it happened.” Draco finished with a flat voice, staring directly into Lestrange’s eyes. 

“But you liked it.” Lestrange spat back at him. He was smiling. Smith had given up at this point. He leaned back on his bench waiting for the proceedings. 

The chorus of hissing responded. 

Draco didn’t speak. The veritaserum didn’t pull any words from him. 

“I think we’re ready to vote.” Percy said in a clipped voice. Everyone in the room was ready for this to be over. 

“Those in favour of clearing the charge?” Not a single person moved. Every member of the Wizengamot looked profoundly uncomfortable. “Those in favour of conviction?” Every hand flew up. “Good. Does anyone have anything they’d like to add before we sentence?”

Harry stood. A murmur ran through the crowd. 

“Mr. Potter?” Percy prompted.

“I’d like to ask for the maximum sentence. No less than life in Azkaban. As someone whose been fighting against Lestrange and the Death Eaters since I was 15, I think it’s no more than he deserves.” Harry’s tone was stoney and his face was set. It sent a chill down Draco’s spine. 

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. It is noted. We’ll adjourn for 30 minutes to discuss.” He smacked his gavel before casting a silencing wall to divide the Wizengamot from the spectators. Members of the DMLE rose to and began walking amongst the crowd to maintain order as a chatter rose around them. 

Draco watched as members of the Wizengamot rose from their seats, not a sound escaping their wall of silence, and began darting around to one another, conferring, nodding, jotting notes, and passing messages to one another. Percy was gesticulating wildly, apparently shouting to certain members for information or opinions. 

Hestia was turning in her seat to whisper something to Susan, and Draco could feel the pull of Harry’s magic from behind him. He could hear Ron and Harry whispering in low voices to one another. Not wanting to be obvious to the hawk-like gaze of Romilda, who seemed to be sans quill again, Draco closed his eyes and sent his magic back to Harry. Acknowledging. Loving.  _ Thank you  _ he pushed into his magic  _ thank you for being here.  _

When the 30 minutes were up, the silencing wall came down, the DMLE took their seats again, and a hush rippled through the crowd. 

“Rodolphus Lestrange, after reviewing the charges laid against you and the witness testimony we, the Wizengamot, sentence you to life in Azkaban with no chance of parole. And, in light of your violation of War Crimes of the International Confederation of Wizards, we have moved to additionally sentence you to magical castration. Do you have anything you wish to say to the court?”

Draco felt faint.

Lestrange, who had paled significantly at the mention of castration seem to be at a loss for words. 

Smith spoke up in his place. “No, sir, we accept the sentence.”

“Then, court adjourned. Your management will be jointly monitored by the DMLE and a team from St. Mungo’s stationed at Azkaban. Thank you all.” Percy gave a final clanging bang of his gavel and then it was over. 

It was over.

The crowd began to murmur and move. The DMLE members stood to open the doors, where the rest of the press presumably waited, hungry for any scraps of information they could knit together into gossip.

Draco didn’t know what to do with himself. He felt Hestia pulling him to his feet and into a consuming hug, her garlic braid scratching his neck. Lestrange was being led on heavy legs to a side room for processing. He would never have to see that face again.

He heard a throat clearing from behind him and he broke away from Hestia to see Ron and Harry standing and watching them. 

“Well done, all of you.” Ron said. He looked exhausted but supremely pleased. 

“Thank you.” Draco said dumbly, starting to regain feeling in his limbs. He was trying not to stare at Harry, who was making this difficult by looking directly at him. 

“Ron, thanks for preparing such a strong case.” Hestia said reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. Susan nodded in agreement

“Trust me, it was my pleasure.” He said grimly. “Excuse me, I need to find ‘Mione.”

The crowd was milling around them now, Susan ducked out after Ron to grab Hannah Abbott into a hug, and Draco could hear Romilda trying to fight through the crowd towards them. 

Harry cleared his throat again, he seemed to be trying to find words. “I just wanted to say,” he looked sideways, seeing Romilda closing in, “that you both did amazingly, and you should be really proud of yourselves.” He smiled shyly and extended his hand to shake Draco’s. 

“Thank you, Potter.” Draco quirked an curious little smile as he reached out to take Harry’s hand. It was such an odd gesture, incredibly formal but soft at the same time, and it made Draco’s heart soar.

Draco’s magic sang at the contact with Harry’s hand. He was so consumed with the simple touch, one seemed to light him on fire from the inside, that he almost didn’t realize Harry was actually trying to pass him something with the handshake. 

Withdrawing his hand he tucked a small object and folded piece of parchment into his pocket. Nestled next to his talisman and an assortment of old letters from Harry. 

Before he could say anything else, however, Romilda and the rest of the press had descended on Harry and Draco. 

“C’mon.” Hestia said, plucking at Draco’s sleeve and pulling him towards the exit. “We don’t need to be here for this.”

Feeling slightly guilty for leaving Harry to the nearly rabid throng of reporters, notebooks and quills waving wildly in the air, but thoroughly agreeing with Hestia. He cast one last look at Harry before descending the steps into the milling crowd. 

Harry stood there, fielding questions and completely ignoring Romilda’s attempts to weedle information out of him, looking strong and firm, hands clasped behind his back and his chest broad, unwavering. Draco ached with wanting to stay with him, but allowed himself to be led through the crowd. There would be time. 

_________

Later that evening, he sat at Luna’s kitchen table, surrounded by Neville, Hestia, Greg, Luna, Pansy, and Blaise. 

It had been an awkward at first, realising that Hestia and Luna had invited Pansy and Blaise to dinner for their celebration. They hadn’t spoken, not meaningfully, since Draco’s suicide attempt. But, Draco was surprised to see how easy it was to slip into conversation with them, as if no time had passed. As if they weren’t all entirely different people. 

They spoke with him differently than the rest of his friends. They were Slytherin through and through. They teased him with sharp wit and nearly indiscernible sarcasm. He forgot how much fun they were, but any time they ran into a heavy topic or neared the taboo of their long estrangement, there was an awkward lull and a quick change of subject. 

By the time Luna was clearing plates, Greg was doing the wash up and Neville had taken Hestia to the garden saying something about yellow tulips and white violets. Sharing the last of the grape cider, Luna was chatting animatedly with Blaise about brain chemistry in relation to addiction, leading him down the hall toward the room where Luna hosted meetings. Pansy and Draco sat alone at the table, and an uneasy silence descended on them. 

Pansy broke first with a heavy sigh, “Draco, I- I should have written more.”

He was surprised. He honestly thought they were going to play nice until the end of the evening and pretend nothing had ever happened, simply going back to only corresponding through greeting cards. 

“Well, I probably could have as well.” He offered uncomfortably, studying his hands. Being open felt more difficult with Pansy than with his other friends. There was so much history. So much unsaid.

“I was a shit friend Draco, I was selfish.” She pushed on, compulsively examining her nails.

Draco snorted. “I mean, yes. But, I also don’t blame you.”

“Well you should!” She nearly yelled, before dropping her voice self consciously and nearly whispering, “I didn’t even invite you to the wedding, for fuck’s sake, Draco, what kind of a monster am I?!”

“A very Slytherin one.” Draco said, a sad smile on his face. “I just assumed you didn’t want to be friends after everything I put you through. I wasn’t exactly a good friend to you and Blaise in school, either.”

“We’ve been friends since  _ birth  _ Draco. That has to count for fucking  _ something _ .” She insisted, looking pained. 

“Of course it counts for something, Pans. It’s just-” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. It had been such a long and draining day, and hashing out childhood fallouts was the last thing he wanted to do right now. “It’s just that we each clearly had some shit to work out.”

“And we should have helped each other do it!” She persisted.

“But we didn’t.” Draco’s voice was sharp.

Pansy’s face fell. “So, what? Are we just sad school acquaintances now? We exchange pleasantries at events and ignore each other otherwise?”

“That’s kind of what we’ve been doing for years.” He pointed out.

“Well, I hate it.” She said mulishly.

“I didn’t even know you’d be here at the trial. Why didn’t you owl me?”

“I didn’t want you to tell me not to come.” She admitted sheepishly.

“Did you come for  _ me? _ ” He was touched at the thought but exasperated at Pansy’s pigheadedness.

“Of fucking course I came for  _ you, _ you  _ prat _ . Your mother wrote my mother and sent a copy of  _ The Prophet _ , and I couldn’t  _ not _ come! And besides,” She continued vehemently, “Theo, and Flora, and Hestia… We’re all Slytherins and we need to support each other.” She looked determined, righteous. 

“Hiss hiss.” He quirked a smile at her, and she smiled back. 

“Hiss hiss, dragon boy.”

“So what now, Pans?” He asked, genuinely curious as to the direction of this conversation. 

“Well,” She said imperiously, “we’re fucking friends again. Still. We were never not friends, we were just stupid, and I was selfish. So, get ready for two owls a week. And if you don’t respond to them promptly, I’ll floo my ass across the continent and kick down your door.”

“Salazar, woman. Alright. I accept your apology.” 

“Good.” She sniffed, appearing to be overcome with emotion but not wanting Draco to see. She picked up her mug and made her way out of the kitchen, presumably to save Blaise from Luna.

Alone at last, he revelled in the silence for a moment and mindlessly fished in his pocket for his talisman. It was only then that he realised he never had a chance to see what Harry had passed him. His heart leapt as he pulled out the small plastic token and a tiny folded note. 

The token was a plastic coin-like medallion, painted bronze with a large triangle in the center and the number one printed in the middle. On the edges of the triangle read the words  _ Unity, Service, Recovery _ . Around the edge of the coin read  _ To Thine Own Self Be True.  _

He stared at the coin for a while, feeling a bemused curiosity before unfolding the note. 

_ Draco,  _

_ I’m so proud of you. You were incredible today, and so, so brave.  _

_ The chip is what I was given for my one year sober. I wanted you to have it. To see that I’m doing it.  _

_ Your birthday is next week, did you know?  _

_ Sorry, I think I’m very funny when I’m nervous.  _

_ Draco Malfoy, will you please go on a birthday date with me so that I may take you out and woo you properly? I miss you.  _

_ Owl me.  _

_ \- Harry _

_ Ps. Please don’t laugh too hard when you read The Prophet’s story about me tomorrow. Unfortunately, I think my reappearance may have overshadowed the Lestrange case.  _

Draco read the letter a dozen times, twirling the coin in his hand. When he heard footsteps returning to the kitchen, he quickly hid the letter and chip. 

Luna came in carrying empty tea cups, “Draco, what are we doing for your birthday next week?”

“Perhaps we can do something on Saturday. I actually have plans on my birthday.” he couldn’t help the stupid grin splitting his face. 


	10. Can't Have You Falling for Me Just Yet

##  Can’t Have You Falling for Me Just Yet

May 28, 2009

The moon was still hanging on to the western horizon when Harry was pulled from a restless fit of dreams, fantasies and images that spilled over from his unconscious mind to his half wakeful state. The sheets were pulled, twisted and clumped about his ankles, pillows lay on the floor and he had disrobed in his sleep down to his pants. Harry groaned into the soft sheets below him. He was sweating, and his skin was on fire. 

He rolled onto his back and kicked the tangle of sheets from his feet, laying his right hand across his stomach, fingertips just below his navel, draped across the dark trail of hair that bisected his abdomen, feeling each deep breath, concentrating on each slow, though unsteady, inhale. His left came up to rub across his face, pushing his hair away from his dampened forehead. He was breathing heavily, despite having been asleep, and he was fighting to regain some composure. 

It wasn’t that the night was particularly warm, in fact, a cool breeze from the open window belied a rather cold summer evening. The chirping of crickets was slow and languid, and mist hung about the rolling hills and valleys of forest that peppered the landscape around the little farmhouse. Somewhere in the distance, Little Dipper was hunting. 

No, it wasn’t the heat that was stoking the gentle lick of flames and the heat he felt pooling within him. Harry had been fighting back the incessant smouldering all afternoon, and well into the evening, when he had finally fallen into that fitful sleep. 

It was Draco. 

Seeing him, Gods, touching him. It had taken all his willpower to control himself, the whole of the trial, sitting behind him, watching him be nothing but powerful and confident and gloriously unashamed. Watching him revel in the ardent support and nearly fanatical admiration of those he had always feared had turned on him. 

That grey suit and his grey eyes, and the way he had looked at Harry. Gods, the way he had looked at him. Soft, and beautiful, and vulnerable, a moment that was for Harry, and Harry alone, for, to the rest of the world, Draco Malfoy was nothing but composure. Control. And that dichotomy - that’s what was making Harry burn so furiously hours later and deep into the night. 

He swallowed hard, pressing his hand against his abdomen, as if to stifle the waves of desire that kept making him feel so very unsteady with lust. As if he were simply drowning in all of ways Draco had grabbed him and held him and refused to relinquish his hold, the way he had opened for him, and him alone. In public, in front of all of the fears of the world and the weight of his past, Draco had looked to him. 

It had felt nearly impossible for Harry not to act, not to respond, not to give away how tethered to each other they were. How wrapped up in each other. How much Harry craved Draco’s attentions. How much he wanted to lavish Draco with his own. How Draco’s magic had painted Harry’s very skin in tantalising strips, had made Harry so hyper aware of every careful tendril, every fire it ignited. 

Harry realised he was panting, and fought to slow himself, to swallow back the undulating desire, and he took a slow and shuddering breath. 

Draco brought out something in him that felt reckless, hungry and animalistic. Primal, and demanding - full of urges he had never felt before, never thought to feel, even. Urges that felt like he might collapse from the weight of them. 

Just the thought of the man made Harry swim in images of pulling off his robes and fancy suit beneath, and licking his skin to taste him, dragging his teeth across the sharper parts of him. Of the feel of Harry’s hands wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer, full of desperation. Of the thought of of cock, slick with his saliva. Of the thought of how his come might taste.

Harry made a deep noise in his throat, before he caught himself, shoving his knuckle into his mouth and biting down to keep the moan that would follow from escaping. His right hand had slipped lower and was pressing now against his cock through his pants, which was painfully hard, precome having dampened the spot just over the swollen head. 

His hips were rocking up against his palm, his body begging for sensation, for the mercy of release. 

No. Not now. 

The thoughts were broken and incomplete, vying for room in his mind.

Not today. Today is not on the schedule. 

Harry pulled his hand from the swell of his cock and gripped the sheets beside him instead, his hips still canting, the loss of contact nearly painful. He bit down on his bottom lip, closing his eyes tightly against the absolute need he felt. Gods, he wanted to come. 

He did growl this time, a sound full of frustration. Today was not on the schedule, no. Today was not on the schedule, and giving in to this wasn’t worth the self doubt and the guilt that would come after. He could wait for tomorrow. He could wait for tomorrow, even if at this exact moment, he wanted nothing else. 

This was another exercise in self control. Luna had given him such a stringent schedule because she knew it would be hard. She knew it would be unfair, at times. The point was for Harry to show himself that he could resist. That sex wasn’t going to be a place of fear and weakness and constantly questioning whether pleasure was part of sickness, was something he should be worrying over. She was making him do this now, so he could build up to not feeling full of doubt. 

He made the decision that moment to get up out of bed and take a cold shower. Freezing. Unbearable. The kind of cold that took your breath and made you wonder if you’d ever be warm again. He turned on the water, removed his pants (ignoring the tempting slide of fabric against his still leaking cock) and stepped in before he could find a logical reason not to be so cruel to himself. 

_______________

Several hours later, Harry was in a mood. His body had protested vehemently against his early morning shower and the rather punishing run he had taken. When he had showered a second time and finally gotten to sit down around the breakfast table with Ron, Hermione and Rose just after eight, he sank into the wooden chair with an exhausted sigh. 

Hermione and Ron both eyed him suspiciously. Rose was throwing cheerios on the floor, one by one, still singing the breakfast song.    


“I’m okay. Just working on something new.” Harry said, giving them both a small smile. 

“Mmm, best not to read The Prophet then, I think.” Hermione quickly folded up the newspaper that had been sitting behind large the jug of orange juice.

Harry raised an eyebrow, interest very clearly piqued. “No, it’s fine let’s see what the damage is. I thought I did well afterwards with all the questioning, and my sabotage of Romilda must have helped for the first bit.” Harry reached across the table and took the paper from her, unfolding it to reveal a front page smudged with the condensation from the juice.    
  


_ GOLDEN BOY BACK IN LONDON _ _   
_

_After over a year since the disappearance of the Wizarding World’s hero, Harry Potter was sighted at the trial of Rodolphus Lestrange, held yesterday at the Ministry of Magic. Potter was there to give testimony as to his work in the DMLE as an Auror on the Lestrange case, and to give an impassioned plea for harsh sentencing._ _  
__After the trial, Potter refused most questions about his whereabouts, but Romilda Vane of the Daily Prophet was able to get an exclusive admission that he had been in the forest, which Potter had delivered with a sly wink, having been longtime friends with Vane since their Hogwarts days in the same house._

_ What forest could he have meant? Was this a reference to the dark Albanian woodlands where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named once regained strength? Could Potter have been sent on secret work from the ministry to quell unrest and burgeoning nefarious underworld activity on the continent? Or was he there on a personal quest, seeking meaning and understanding about the figure who had hunted him for most of his young life?  _

_ Justin Finch-Fletchley, junior under secretary to the Minister of Magic, let slip that he was shocked at Potter’s appearance, having recalled a gaunt, harrowed and rather unsteady visage just before Potter had disappeared last year, completely different from the healthy, confident and rather fetching man who appeared in court yesterday, very dapper in a dark grey ensemble and austere black robes. Was Potter ill and taking time off to regain his health, and not on ministry business at all? This would explain the dramatic and secretive way he had vanished, and why he has not returned to the DMLE and since quit his post as one of Robbard’s top Aurors, but would not explain the very enigmatic clue of the forest. Efforts to uncover an establishment or health facility that went by the name the forest were unsuccessful.  _

_ Readers may recall that last year we ran a whole month of theories as to why, where and how Potter had disappeared - highlights included Potter’s devastating breakup with Meghan Rexford of the Wemborne Wasps being the cause of his flight from the public eye, as well as theories around his deteriorating mental health and a stint in St. Mungo’s Janus Thickey ward, neither of which were verifiable at the time, with Meghan Rexford declining any comment at all and staff at St. Mungo’s remaining characteristically uncooperative with The Prophet’s request for commentary. Our most popular theory was that Potter was injured irreparably in the line of duty, perhaps being bitten by a werewolf and forced to take a leave of absence.  _

_ At the end of the day, this writer remains thankful that Potter has reappeared at all, looking charmingly handsome and still without a ring on his finger. It seems there remains hope for us ladies out there. _

Harry snorted in amusement, rolling his eyes. Romilda Vane really was as vapid as ever. The idea that she and other women in the wizarding world should remain hopeful for his affection was beyond laughable. Not only was he very much gay, but, he remained more than a little obsessed with the same man who had captivated his attention for the last decade, one Draco Lucius Malfoy. The photo that accompanied the article was of him in the witness box, leaning back against the bench with one arm up over the backing. He looked relaxed and at ease. It was while he was trying to pretend he wasn’t thinking about pulling Draco down onto his lap and kissing him senseless.

Thinking of Draco, though trying to school his thoughts away from all of the heretical fun he wanted to have with him, Harry flipped to the third page of the paper to find a little column on the trial, written by none other than Dennis Creevey. It was kind, supportive and very fair, roundly condemning Lestrange and uplifting those who had spoken against him, as well as those who had hissed their dissent from the spectator stands. It applauded the witnesses without throwing the details of their testimony on display for the masses to consume. Respectful and poignant. 

The article ended with information for those who were still struggling after the war - signs and symptoms of PTSD, issues of addiction, what constitutes sexual violence, then where to get help, even how to help loved ones, and the like. It was wonderfully done, and brightened Harry’s mood considerably. Dennis was a gem of a man, and how much he cared for others was evident on the page. 

He looked up from the paper to Ron, peeking over the most recent Quibbler, and Hermione’s waiting gazes. Rose remained oblivious, now pointing her spoon at her mother and pretending to cast spells, babbling an attempt at the incantation. 

Harry gave them a half smile, “not half bad, I think.” 

The other two seemed to let out held breaths, full of relief. It was sweet, how much they cared. How much they had always cared. Always trying to spare him the details, holding him like he was made of glass, ready to shatter. Hermione went back to her chia seed yoghurt and Ron sipped from his orange juice. It was nearly the same shade as his Chudley Cannons apron, which was draped over the back of his usual chair. The cover of the Quibbler featured articles on Harry’s reduction in wrackspurts and the calming effects of herbal teas.

Harry reached for some porridge and the milk, making himself a bowl, his stomach rumbling. 

“Expelliarmus!” He snatched the spoon Rose was waving about from her hand, blowing a raspberry on her cheek as he did it, causing her to erupt into a fit of giggles, her surrogate wand easily forgotten. 

_____________

June 02, 2009

 

_ Harry,  _

_ What did you have in mind?  _

_ \- Draco _

 

Harry looked up at Little Dipper and raised an eyebrow.

“He thinks he’s going to play hard to get with me? After all this?”

Little Dipper hooted and ruffled his feathers, clearly just as frustrated.

 

_ Draco, _

_ Five days you’ve had to write me and that’s all I get? I’m not giving away anything. Say you’ll come with me. Say yes, and meet me at the Ruined Arch in South London at half 12 on Friday. There’s an apparition point just West of the main archway. I promise, I won’t disappoint.  _

_ In fact, don’t even write back, I know you’ll be there - you’re just trying to steep me in the same nervous anticipation I know you’re feeling. Oh but Draco, you must know by now that won’t work on me. I am as sure about you as I ever was, just as I’m sure you won’t be able to resist seeing me. Don’t run.  _

_ See you then, _

_ \- Harry  _

_ Ps. Wear something comfortable.  
_

 

Harry smirked to himself as he folded up the parchment. He knew his arrogance would have Draco rolling his eyes, but he didn’t mind. Draco needed to know he wasn’t tentative. And, besides, it was all true. He wasn’t tentative. He had done nothing but think of all the ways he could charm Draco, could shock and surprise and delight him into being impressed with him. At the end of the day, however, what Draco really wanted was that sense of peace and security and safety. He didn’t need anything flashy or over the top. No, the way to win Draco over was by showing him Harry understood him. Understood everything beneath that facade. 

He sent the little scrap of parchment on with Little Dipper, who seemed just as pleased with himself as Harry was, hopping to the windowsill and swooping out of sight. 

Harry leaned back in his chair, still smiling to himself. 

_____________

June 05, 2009

“Rose, it’s you and me in the kitchen today. You’re in charge of making sure I don’t mess this up. A certain someone is very picky and terribly discerning. And, Godric, I want to impress him.” 

Harry had gotten up with the sun, run a full 10 kilometres around the farms of the area, showered and rushed Hermione and Ron out the door to work. And now, now he was preparing lunch. Picnic lunch. 

Why couldn’t he just be a normal person and invite someone to a restaurant for a date? Why did he have to plan this grand romantic thing that had fifteen million different potential reasons to go terribly?

Harry tasted the aloo gobi that lay simmering on the stove. Perfect. 

He had checked the weather obsessively over London for the past few days. No chance of rain, light breeze, just a few perfectly plush and whimsical clouds. Harry thought he might be solely responsible for the glorious June weather, with all the concentrating he had done on making sure it didn’t rain. 

He stirred a pot of dal absentmindedly, watching Rose nibble on a potato. 

“I’m an idiot, Rose. I fell for someone with impeccable taste. Is this what it’s going to be like, forever?” 

Harry grinned at her. He wasn’t really stressed, or worried, or upset that he had gone and bent himself backwards to impress Draco. He liked it. He liked that he knew he could do it. He had planned the perfect day. 

By eleven, Harry had packed away a slew of dishes into a neat little basket, full of naan and saffron rice and Neville’s bottle of lemon and jasmine cordial. He shrunk the basket down and handed it off to Little Dipper. 

“You know when and where you little monster, don’t you mess this up. I’m counting on you, we can’t have a lunch date without lunch.” 

Dipper hooted and danced about the kitchen window, hopping from one foot to the other, his ear tufts waggling hilariously. Harry grinned at him. The little bird had never let him down, and he seemed nearly as excited as he was himself. 

The kitchen was an absolute disaster. Flour was spilled across one countertop, pans and burnt remnants of previously attempted dishes were piled high in the sink. Curry was smeared along the bottom cabinets where it had unceremoniously splattered as Harry ladled it into serving dishes frantically. It was astounding, but it smelled delicious, and fresh, and the final result was beautifully made and lovely food. Harry was very well pleased with himself. 

He wasn’t pleased, however, to hear the kitchen door open and see Ron’s freckled face duck in, a look of interest instantly turning to bereft incredulity at the state of his beloved kitchen. He had obviously come home for lunch and to check on Rose. 

“Blimey Harry, what have you done with the place?!” He was looking around, his mouth open. Rose was not helping, bouncing in her chair and yelling “potato” over and over again. 

“Ron. Forgive me. But, I have a date. I have a date and I’m making the food. And, if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late, and that’ll be an absolute disaster, so, hold the questions for tonight. I’ve gotta get dressed!” 

Harry dashed up the stairs to the spare bedroom, yelling behind him, “can you take Rosie over to the Burrow for me? Your mom’s in on the plan, I just wasn’t expecting to be so far behind already or I’d’ve taken her myself.” 

He could hear Ron asking Rose what in the world was going on as he shut the door and grabbed a clean pair of black jeans, his trainers and a passable but plain dark green shirt. He ran his fingers through his hair a few times, knowing it wouldn’t be doing much good in any case, and rubbed some flour off his own cheek. 

“Okay Draco, here we go. This is what you get.” He said to his own reflection in the mirror. 

Harry dashed back out the front door, just after 12, and up the lane to the apparition, twisting into the crushing darkness at a run, Little Dipper having already flown off in the direction of London. 

He appeared just off to the side behind one of the many old arches, dusting himself off and moving aside the leaves of a rather spindly elm. 

Harry hadn’t been in muggle London for quite some time, and certainly not in such dense crowds as the summer at Kew Gardens would draw. He could hear families with raucous children, foreign languages and laughing. He steadied himself and focused his magic. 

Great rippling waves, slow and rolling, moved from his hands. A spell he had learned back in the Forest of Dean but one that would serve him just as well today. _Repello Muggletum_ he whispered softly, walking out into the crowd, which had now thinned significantly. People were turning around and ambling off, remembering important issues or the idea that they had perhaps parked illegally. Some felt compelled to visit the London Eye or the National Archive in place of the sprawling lawns and bursting gardens of Kew. 

Harry smiled, focused and intent on the fact that today, June fifth, he and Draco would be alone in this sprawling expanse of green, beds bursting with just blooming buds, placid rock pools and steamy greenhouses. 

This was his gift to Draco, a world of living, breathing artful wonders, carefully kept and flourishing under the guidance of those who lived to watch the world come alive. 

He walked ahead a ways, ensuring the borders of the gardens were thick with his repelling charms, hustling the last of the small children, just now learning how to run, and senior citizens, leaning on canes and pushing walkers in front of them. He pulled them back from the gigantic annual waterlilies, grown from seed each year and the graceful wisteria vines that delivered long clusters of bright purple flowers year after year, for centuries now, and sent them on their way. 

Returning to the archway, Harry took a deep breath, letting the quiet settle, now punctuated only by birdsong and the rustling of the breeze in the grasses and trees. 

The pop of apparition made him nervous for the first time that day. Butterflies swarmed in his stomach and he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. 

Draco stumbled out of the overgrown arch to the West and Harry couldn’t help but laugh, his voice punctuating the still and quiet world of the garden. 

“Careful, can’t have you falling for me just yet, I’ve got a whole thing planned.” Harry called to him, walking up the now empty stone lined avenue toward him.

Draco dusted himself off, huffing, obviously startled and overwhelmed. He had taken Harry’s advice to dress comfortably and donned chinos, for Salazar’s sake. He looked sharp and attractive, as always, but Harry was more taken with the blush that had crept up his cheeks and threatened to cover his neck. 

Harry held out his hand. “Come on then, I’ve got so much to show you.” 

Draco reached out and took it, though it almost seemed like he wanted to refuse. 

“Where is this? Where are we?” He said, after a moments silence, gazing around at the tree lined expanse, otherwise empty save for themselves.  

“This is Kew Gardens. It’s a muggle garden, tended by the city of London, people come here to view plants from all over the world and connect with nature, to get away from the big city life.” Harry was smiling, gesticulating with his hand that wasn’t interlaced with Draco’s. 

The other man’s palm was a bit sweaty, and Harry could feel how nervous his magic was, but he wasn’t put off by it. Draco was Draco, nerves and sweat and all, and Harry just launched into a speech about the history of the garden, the size, the number of plants, how muggles had come up with new and inventive ways to create greenhouses to keep their specimens alive. He had done his research for this, he’d read up.  

Draco let him prattle on as they walked, his magic slowly growing against Harry’s, finding its foothold, unfurling. Draco seemed mesmeris ed by the beds full of blooming specimens, bees happily buzzing between yellow and purple and violet petals, hydrangeas and hyacinths, coating themselves in pollen before flying off again. 

Harry paused in his explanations to watch Draco take it all in. They had come to the end of their avenue, and directly ahead lay a greenhouse. Well, several greenhouses, all connected, pulled together by large arches of steel and coated in hundreds of glass panes. 

“Can we go in?” Asked Draco, tentative but clearly overcome with curiosity. 

“Of course.” Harry was grinning, bolstered by Draco’s interest. He had been quiet, unsure, but Harry could see his love of the garden starting to bubble up beneath the doubt, the intimidation that was their first proper date in the real world. 

Harry squeezed his hand softly and led him up the stairs and through the glass doors into the world beneath the glass. It was humid and the air was thick with moisture, giant palms and strelitzias towering above and draping their leaves across the paths that wound between the beds. 

“Muggles started bringing plants back here from all over the world, to study them, particularly in medicine.” Harry said softly into the new quiet of the hot house.  

Draco let go of Harry’s hand for the first time that morning, dragging his fingers across mossy rocks and the thick leaves of tropical water dwellers that lined a large pond to the left. Harry watched as Draco closed his eyes, breathing deeply and slowly, Jacaranda petals slowly falling about him, their purple petals littering the floor and the surface of the pond. 

“You didn’t need me to tell you my weaknesses. You knew them already. That’s why you’ve brought me here.” 

“It’s true,” Harry said softly back, “I do know you, Draco Malfoy. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to know more.” 

Draco smirked and huffed a laugh, turning back to marvel at a yellow pincushion in full bloom, stretching out across the path in front of him. 

Harry followed along behind him in silence, watching him move from bed to bed, marveling at ancient cycads and stopping to sniff at kiwi flowers, the vine decadently wound around a wrought iron railing. His heart beating hard in his chest at the smile that curled the corners of his mouth when he came across a bank of flowering clivia. 

“I quit St. Mungo’s.” Draco’s voice was unnaturally loud in the thick hush of the greenhouse. 

“I think I’m going to devote myself to the research full time. The Department of Mysteries has been making a lot of offers, promises of support, materials, guidance, anything I want.” 

Harry watched him walk slowly around the end of the path, sitting himself on a bench just below a golden lotus banana. He crossed his legs, the chinos tailored to the perfect length that just a strip of his ankle was now visible beneath the stylishly folded cuff. It seemed as though this career change was something he wanted to discuss, something weighing on him, so he let the silence hang, waiting to see what else would come. 

“I don’t want to stop helping patients. Healing is a calling. One I’ve always been at peace with. I just couldn’t deal with people assuming I was there just to clear my name, just to prove something about my past.” The admission came as Harry sat himself down on the bench next to him, and Harry nodded to himself. Draco didn’t want to stop caring. 

“And, I’d like to keep making potions. I’m the only person in recorded history who’s gotten thestrals to agree to work with me, so I feel like I can’t not do this work.”

“Mmm.” Harry hummed his agreement. “Can you do both? What about working at your own practice where you can brew potions on days you’re not seeing your own patients? The DoM could let you hold your research from there, couldn’t they?”

Draco looked momentarily shocked, rolling the idea around in his head before answering. “I never thought about that, actually. Haematology is quite a speciality, but it wouldn’t be unheard of if I worked outside of the hospital. I would have a lot more autonomy, at least. And I’d be able to monitor my own patients that I am treating for the DoM. I had never thought about it before because there was a time where I didn’t think any patients would come to a practice run by Draco Malfoy.”

Harry nodded again, understanding the stigma that still lay heavy in the wizarding world. They would come around, though. Draco had put in the work. He had earned their trust. 

“And you?” Draco had turned his eyes to Harry, expectantly. “What are you planning in your life?”

Harry paused a moment, sighing deeply. “To be honest, I told myself I’d work on recovery this year and do the career thing next year. Eventually, I want to teach, and be around young people who need the kind of help I needed, and be that person who can help guide them. For now, it’s just meetings. And therapy. So much therapy. And helping Ron and Hermione out at home with Rose.” 

He quirked a smile at Draco. “It’s hard work, therapy, you were right. I thought maybe you were just being a bit dramatic.” 

“I was not being dramatic, therapy is like being skinned alive and rolled in salt.” He deadpanned. 

“Well, I don’t know if it’s that horrible…” Harry was smiling, goading him.

“Oh? How’s that orgasm schedule working out for you then?” Draco bit back.

“Alright. Enough. It’s torture, you were right. You’re right about everything.” He knew he never should have mentioned that, shaking his head with a soft, albeit embarrassed, laugh. “Are you hungry? I’ve got more to show you.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “More?” 

“More.” Harry repeated, standing up and offering Draco his hand, pulling him to his feet and leading him back out into the comparatively brisk summer day. 

He led them both down a flight of steps and off into a shady copse of trees, in one of which, sat Little Dipper. He hooted frantically and swooped over to land on Harry’s shoulder, nibbling at his ear, obviously ecstatic he’d done his delivery properly and all was not lost. 

Harry struggled a moment to untangle the parcel from his leg, returning the basket and all its contents to their proper size, sweet smells of cumin, cinnamon and coriander filling the air. 

“Did you make me lunch, Potter?” Draco was smirking, looking wildly impressed. 

“Are we back to Potter, now? Call me Harry, Draco. And yes, I’ve made us lunch.” 

“Okay. Harry.” 

Harry turned and smiled at him, pulling out a blanket, spreading it out beneath a tree, and patting the spot beside him. 

“Are these gardens always so empty? Don’t muggles spend time here?” Draco asked, seating himself primly next to Harry, who had started unpacking the basket, laying out ever more colourful and delectable smelling dishes. 

“I’m repelling them.” Harry scooped himself a pile of malai kofta onto his naan, adding a heaping of the saffron rice.

“All of them? This whole time?” Draco had paused midway between helping himself to the aloo gobi. That was an extreme amount of magic, even for Harry. London was not a small city. This was not a small garden. 

“Yep.” 

Draco was quiet a moment while he tore pieces of naan and arranged them on his plate. “I have to say, I’m feeling distinctly wooed.”

“That’s the idea.” Harry had just taken his first bite of the food, and he closed his eyes happily. It was delicious. Perfect. 

“I don’t think I can top -” Draco was interrupted by Harry actually choking to death on his food, his eyes wide, staring at Draco.

“This date, you prat. I meant I wouldn’t be able to come up with something as romantic.” He gawked at Harry, who was turning a deep shade of red. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He chastised, slapping Harry hard on the back as he coughed up rice.

“You are 100% trying to kill me.” Harry spluttered, roaring with laughter. “First that damn book, now this. Draco, I was just trying to take you to lunch.”

“Merlin, help me…” Draco was trying hard not to laugh. “You are unbelievable.” 

“Hey, you’re the one keen to discuss who’s topping on the first date. I just wanted some food and nice scenery, maybe some privacy. I would’ve settled for a kiss, at the end.” 

Draco was bright pink now, but he had finally succumbed to a bout of very undignified giggling. “Are you going to tell me why your therapist put you on an orgasm schedule? I’ve been dying to ask, but I didn’t want to pry.” 

Harry groaned, setting his plate down and looking over at Draco, resting his head in his hand. He wasn’t really keen to talk about this. This was not where he imagined the date going, but he supposed this was Draco, and honesty was always the thread that ran between them.

“It’s part of my recovery. Like a test. To make sure I still feel in control of parts of me. Particularly, the parts of me that like pleasure.” He sighed heavily, shrugging. “I don’t think it’ll be for long, just for now, while I was working on some things.” He looked away and out across the expanses of lawn, dotted with trees. In the distance, he spotted his thestral, rolling in a singular dusty patch beneath an old elm tree. 

“I’m doing it, but it’s making me a bit mental. It’s certainly made me a little more intimidated by my modest efforts to court you. I keep thinking I’m going too fast, or not fast enough, or wondering if you’re expecting me to be someone I can’t be.” He was thinking back to the night in the forest. The last time they had been together, alone. He could feel the sadness creeping in to his voice, the way his magic pulled at him, a sense of longing.

“Harry, I know you too. I know what mistakes I’ve made with you. I’m not here because I expect you to be someone you’re not. I’m here to start again. Because what we had was important. It was real. You were right, we weren’t ready, not yet. Not then.” 

Harry was watching him while he spoke, watching the way he committed to each word. The way he emphasised important. His magic had crossed the gap between them and Harry felt the gentle lapping warmth against his skin, the honesty there, the truth. 

“I think I’m ready. Not for everything, just, maybe, just for something.” Harry said, looking up into Draco’s grey eyes. His blonde hair was a mess from the humidity in the green house, his shirt rumpled. He was beautifully disastrous, his posh exterior nothing but a memory of the man in front of him. Harry wanted to unravel him, to see him come apart in his hands. 

“Tell me what you’re ready for.” Draco said, meeting his gaze. His face was flushed. Their food lay forgotten. Harry’s thestral was loping across the far lawn to greet Voileami, who had appeared in a thick bed of lavender, dust trailing out behind him. 

And Harry was smiling in his mischievous way, his eyes bright and eager. “I want to kiss you, Draco. I want to kiss you properly. Like you’re meant to be kissed. Like I’ve been dying to kiss you for months now. Maybe even years.” 

“Show me.” 

And Harry closed the gap between them, the smile still broad on his face, pausing just before their lips met. 

“Draco.” 

And Harry kissed him, his name still hanging in the air between them. 

## 


	11. You Wanted to Know My Weaknesses

##  You Wanted to Know My Weaknesses 

Draco was dead. Clearly he was dead, or in a coma, or hallucinating. These were the only options. Because, Harry Potter was kissing him. Harry, who had used enough magic to power a small village in order to repel hundreds of muggles from this stunningly gorgeous botanical garden, just for Draco. Harry, who had made him a picnic  _ from scratch _ . Harry, who wanted him. Who wanted  _ him _ . 

Harry, who was nipping at Draco’s bottom lip after each successive kiss. Who had his hand in Draco’s hair. Who smelled like coming home. Who tasted like months of pooling lust. Of adoration. Who’s magic was heavy and thick and decadent across his skin, sublime and consummate. 

There was no way that he, Draco, was laying back, pulling Harry with him, grabbing the front of his shirt and guiding him down. Not in his wildest dreams did he think this would be happening on their first date. No, see, what must have happened was that he was trampled to death by a herd of thestrals on his way out the door this morning, and he was being rewarded in the afterlife for some bizarre reason. 

Harry was kissing him so sweetly and firmly that Draco’s bones felt like they were melting. There was nothing harried nor frantic about it. Just a closeness that Draco didn’t even realize he had been desperate for. The kind of kiss he wished he had been able to give Harry in the forest. 

He had one hand on Harry’s face and the other tentatively gripping his shirt. Draco had pulled Harry down and over him so that he was straddling his groin, and Harry was valiantly trying his best not to sink the full weight of his hips down onto him, despite Draco’s clear invitation and the gentle, nearly insistent tug of his hand, fisted in his shirt. Draco was shocked by his own bravado, but he had never felt so sure, so safe. So open.  

Draco knew that Harry was nearly as inexperienced as he was, but there was such a confidence in the way he kissed Draco, the way he slid one hand along Draco’s side and slipped it beneath his lower back, lifting him just slightly up toward him, the way he kissed the corner of his mouth and along his jaw and the low, hungry sounds he made as he kissed down his neck, like he wanted nothing but to savor every moment of his lips on Draco’s flesh. 

It was Harry who broke the spell of the moment, who showed restraint. Harry who had paused, rested his forehead against Draco’s shoulder and growled. 

“I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. I just... You...” He was obviously blushing, struggling to speak. “It’s unfair. What you do to me. I forget about everything I’ve just said about going slow. I forget about everything but what I want to do to you. To give you.” 

Draco was certain he was in a coma. How could Harry want him this much? It was nearly unbearable. Draco could feel Harry’s magic pulsing around them, demanding, keening. 

“Slow is good.” He said stupidly. He did want to go slow. Slow was safe. But he couldn’t deny that he was swept up in the feeling, the pull of Harry, the allure. The weight of him. Draco felt like he was balancing on a sharp edge between falling into a lust fueled race to the finish, and pushing Harry back away from him to reclaim his personal space. 

“Yeah, and you say that with a look on your face like you want me to undress you right here, right now.” Harry’s voice was low and warning, and Draco chanced a glance between them. He was obviously hard. 

Draco dropped his head back and covered his eyes with the crook of his arm. He was grinning and blushing, but he still felt nervous. Overwhelmed. “Harry… Can we…” His stomach was filled with the flutters of anticipation but his limbs felt tingly and numb. The urge to run was there. In the background. Despite how much he was beginning to enjoyed the attention. This was all very new. 

Harry smiled into the nape of Draco’s neck, rolling onto his back at Draco’s side unceremoniously, his hand coming up to find Draco’s, squeezing it firmly. “Draco.” And, at the fleeting moment of worry that crossed Draco’s features when he looked to him, he added, “Sorry, I mean. Don’t run, Draco. This is okay. It’s enough to kiss you just once. Much more might make me come untouched in my pants like a horny teenager, anyway. I have no  expectation of more.” He was trying to joke, but his voice was a bit too pained. “Just lay here with me another minute so I can take it all in.” 

Draco’s heart hurt with the sweetness of it all, and he squeezed Harry’s hand back in acquiescence. Harry had turned to look at him, his eyes drifting from his tousled hair to his mouth, his lips. 

“You’re beautiful, you know. I’ve wanted to tell you for ages.” Harry was smiling at him. “Especially now, when you’re blushing like that. When I know it’s me who’s made you so flustered. When I’m the one who’s made you look like this.” He reached out and touched the side of Draco’s face as he spoke, running his thumb across his cheek bone. 

Draco felt himself blush even more and he couldn’t stop smiling like a complete idiot. It was too much. He was filled with immense relief that Harry didn’t expect more, but the jumpy tension in his stomach wouldn’t dissipate. He was completely out of his depth. 

The intensity of his feelings bubbled up inside of him, he couldn’t tell if he was scared or excited, or maybe it was both. The desire to extricate himself from this kind of intensity warring with his new desire and longing for this new thing he was cultivating with Harry. 

He took a deep breath, grounded himself, and make the conscious choice to sit with the discomfort that came with this growth and opening. It was like deciding to walk on ice you knew was too thin to support your weight. 

“Have dessert with me.” Harry nosed at his shoulder and planted a kiss on the fabric of his shirt, coaxing him. “I made you something special. It’s your birthday, after all.” 

Draco nodded, still smiling, not trusting himself to say anything. If he opened his mouth he was sure something embarrassing would come out. Or he’d wake up from his coma. 

Harry sat up, not even shy about adjusting his now awkwardly tight pants, resting his back against the tree behind them. “Come here.” He patted the blanket in front of him. 

Draco moved from next to Harry, positioning himself directly in front of him, nesting his back into Harry’s chest. Harry’s legs spread out on either side of his. Harry slipped his arms on either side of Draco’s waist to lay across his thighs. 

He was beginning to think that maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe this was real. 

He thought for a fleeting second, that pervasive instinct always dancing on the periphery, inserting itself into even the most enjoyable and loving of circumstances, that maybe he should just get up and run screaming into the distance. 

No, no, calm down. 

This is great. Life is great. Harry’s great. Harry  _ kissed him _ . No need to panic. He trusted Harry. That ardent look of adoration and adulation from him was enough to make Draco want to fight all of his tendencies to flee. 

Harry summoned a container from the basket to his left, uncapping the container and nuzzling the back of Draco’s shoulder. “Is this okay?” 

Draco nodded, taking a deep breath, reminding himself he could trust. This was Harry. His Harry. Who carved him protective talismans and wove magic to keep him safe. 

“Try this.” Harry’s voice was soft in his ear, goosebumps erupting down his neck. 

Something sticky and sweet pushed past his lips. It tasted like rose water and cardamom, soaked in honey. The ball of dough was syrupy and decadent. Draco made a small noise of pleasure at the saccharine taste, relaxing back against Harry, who had huffed a laugh at his reaction. 

“Good?” 

“Merlin’s tits, that’s amazing.” Draco said, the soft and sticky sweet dough was more than good. He could feel Harry’s magic pulling at him, like electricity singing across his bare skin. 

Taking a few steadying breaths, Harry reached for a sweet morsel for himself. 

“Draco I- I need you to help me- to tell me if I’m being too much. If I’m pushing too fast or even- even if there’s too much silly romance. Set boundaries for me, otherwise I’m going to be too much.” Harry said, chewing the decadent dessert, using the fact that Draco was faced away to bare himself a bit more. 

“Are you saying you’re not usually a hopeless romantic?” Draco asked, a hint of disappointment escaping in his voice.

Harry huffed a laugh. “No, you git, I’m an incorrigible romantic. There’s no changing that. I meant that I need you to tell me if I’m taking it too far.” He finished, adjusting himself behind Draco who could feel that Harry was still noticeably hard. 

Draco didn’t really know what to say. It’s not that he minded, but he did feel a bit out of his depth. Filled with a sense that he wouldn’t be able to meet Harry’s needs, damaged and full of apprehension as Draco was. 

“Please don’t take that the wrong way.” Harry hurried on, clearly worried by Draco’s silence. “I find you unbearably attractive, yes, but I don’t want you to think that that’s the only reason I’m doing this. You’re more than your stunning good looks. You’re more than an object of my desire.”

“Mm.” Draco hummed in response, carefully considering Harry’s words. The admission unraveled a ball of apprehension in the pit of Draco’s stomach. A worry he hadn’t even recognised he was carrying.  “And why are you doing this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Harry asked, grinning into Draco’s neck, gently tightening his hold around his waist. Clearly relishing their closeness.

“Consider me an oblivious fool.” Draco teased, trying to mask just how unsure he felt. 

“I like you, Draco. More than. I way more than just like you, actually. I’m completely captivated by you. By your strength and your heart. I think we only just scratched the surface of what we could have been when we were in the forest, and I want to see where that can go. When we were alone, I held myself back, quite a lot, actually, because you said our feelings were falsely generated by our isolation, and the fact that I had only just figured out I was gay.” He paused a moment, trying to find the right words. “But, I’ve realised since leaving and being on my own, that what I felt was genuine. That I’ve been harbouring an attraction for you for years, and just didn’t know how to cope with it around you. But, I know how to cope better now, I think.” He held Draco firm against him while he spoke, as if trying to convey his surety. “I am completely enamoured with you, and it makes me… it makes me feel things that I never thought I would.” He was talking into Draco’s shoulder, voice slightly muffled by the material of his shirt. 

Draco’s heart had sped up while Harry spoke. The intensity of those feelings buzzing on his insides. He was becoming aware that his body didn’t seem to know the difference between elation and terror, and seemed to register Draco’s excitement and trepidation as something scary.

Draco let out a long breath when he realised he had stopped breathing. “I like you, too, Harry. And,” He admitted quietly, trying hard to prevent his voice from shaking, “I also want to see where this goes. What we can be.” He felt slightly breathless.

“Well, thank Salazar for that.” Harry laughed, seeming relieved. “I’m sorry if this feels overwhelming.” He was suddenly serious, though still compassionate.

“It’s not-” Draco tried to deny feebly, automatically, before Harry cut him off. 

“Draco, I know you well enough to know when you’re feeling overwhelmed. You get quiet and sweaty and I can practically  _ hear _ your heartbeat. It’s okay.” he reassured when Draco started turning red and getting even warmer. “Don’t feel self conscious about it.”

“Easier said than done.” Draco laughed awkwardly, starting to feel a bit too warm and stifled. He was starting to fidget, hands compulsively searching for something to keep them occupied. Shredding leaves, pulling pieces of grass mindlessly. 

“Hey,” Harry said, using his softest voice yet, “just take a deep breath, and tell me what I can do to make this less scary for you. What do you need from me?”

Harry loosened his grip on Draco’s waist and used soft fingers to run light touches across Draco’s shoulders and he felt himself feel instantly soothed. He took a deep breath and thought for a moment. 

What did he need for this to be less scary?

“Honestly, I think it’s going to be a little scary no matter what.” He admitted, feeling a little defeated by his own nature. Why was he like this?

“Okay.” Harry said thoughtfully. “And, do you feel ready to face scary things? Even if that scary thing is me sometimes - I trust you know I’m far from perfect and I have my own demons I bring to the table.”

Draco thought about that, fidgeting restlessly with a twig he had picked up. “Yes.” he said quietly. 

“Are you sure?” Harry, stilled his fingers on Draco’s biceps. 

“I want to be. I want to be the kind of person who can be in a... be in a - whatever this is. And I’m not scared of you.” he waved his hand vaguely back at Harry. 

Harry chuckled and continued stroking his fingers, featherlight, up and down Draco’s arms and across his shoulders. “And what do you want this whatever-it-is to be? Hm?”

Draco was feeling more and more relaxed the more Harry ran his fingertips across his skin. He smiled considering  _ what _ he wanted he and Harry to be. 

He reached over and took another sticky dough ball and considered what he wanted. “I think it’s too soon to say.” He finally said, hoping not to hurt Harry’s feelings.

“That’s fair.” Harry acquiesced. 

“What is this?” Draco finally asked, picking up another dough ball. “It’s positively sinful.” 

“Mm” huffed Harry in amusement. “It’s galub jamon. And, yes, sinful is how I might describe it.” He teased roguishly, popping one into his own mouth. 

Draco didn’t have a response. He huffed with fond exasperation and reached for another. Finally settling into Harry’s embrace, relaxing his full weight back into his strong chest. 

Harry hummed in approval. He wrapped one arm around him to pull him closer and resting his chin on Draco’s shoulder. 

They sat like that for a long while. Listening to the song birds and rustle of leaves, feeling the breeze on their skin. Harry, taking deep breaths into his neck, stroked Draco’s left arm while holding him securely with his right. Draco, resting his head back on Harry, traced light patterns with his fingers on the back of Harry’s hand. 

“So, does this mean there will be a second date?” Harry asked, unable to hide his own anticipation, his own nerves. Draco wondered how long he’s been waiting to ask. 

He smiled and turned his head to see Harry’s face, which was so open and hopeful it squeezed Draco’s insides. “Yes, Harry, there will most certainly be a second date.”

____________

June 15, 2009

Draco’s last week had passed in a blurry haze. After his exquisite birthday picnic, Harry had apparated Draco home and escorted him to his apartment, where he had left him with one last earth shattering, mind numbing kiss. One that had Draco falling back against his own door with Harry’s full weight pushing against him, his thigh confidently asserted between Draco’s legs. 

The suddenness of Harry’s deft pinning of Draco’s hands and the weight of his groin against Draco’s hip as he pressed against him forced a shocked, but no less desirous, moan from Draco into Harry’s mouth. It was quick and searing, and, in that moment, it left no room for doubt about Harry’s feelings or intentions for him. 

He left Draco standing there, feeling light headed from desire and shock, mouth open and panting softly. Harry was grinning mischievously, clearly pleased with himself for making Draco unravel in a single, swift kiss. 

Harry backed away, relinquishing him, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. The only sign that he was absolutely struggling not to run back at Draco to continue what he had so ambitiously started, not wanting to push too far. “Happy Birthday, Draco.” He had smiled, looked Draco’s wrecked appearance up and down thoroughly, biting his own bottom lip, face full of the lust that Draco had been given tantalising glimpses of all afternoon, before turning and apparating away. 

After Harry had left, Draco ran to the floo like a teenager in hysterics, throwing powder in and yelling, “ _ Vignoble Zabini!”  _ and shouting, “Pansy! I have shit to tell you! Get over here!” As soon as the connection went through. She was the friend he could be absolutely ridiculous with, and Pansy thrived off of his dramatic flair. 

They chatted for nearly two hours. Draco had refused to relinquish the identity of his mysterious suitor, which had only increased Pansy’s insistent curiosity. 

“Which means he’s either famous or I already know him.” She coaxed. 

“I’m not giving anything away, you nosey hag.” Draco said, knowing Pansy’s knack for weedling information out of people was legendary amongst Slytherins. The blackmailing menace. 

“Fine, be that way.” She rolled her eyes. “Either way, as lovely as your one-singular-date sounded, it concerns me how smitten you seem. What exactly does this Romeo want from you?”

Draco scoffed indignantly. “What? People can’t like me?”

“Oh, come on, of course people can like you, and I’m sure more people than you realize are interested.” It was Draco’s turn to roll his eyes.  “What I’m asking,” she clarified dramatically, “is what are his  _ intentions _ ?”

Draco buried his head in his arm and moaned like a dying whale, just to annoy her. 

“Oh don’t give me that.” She chastised, trying not to laugh. “What is wrong with you? Honestly. What are his plans for the future? How do you fit in them? From the sounds of it, he has a full plate. I’m just saying it’s not fair for him to offer you these grand romantic gestures if he’s just going to put you on his backburner. And, not to mention, are you taking things slow in the bedroom?”

“Pansy we haven’t even mentioned the bedroom, and  _ I’m _ the one who told him that one date was too soon to put any labels on anything.” He felt an intense and slightly irrational desire to defend Harry from Pansy’s vicious, though protective, nature. 

“Yes, and that’s all fine and well, but it sounds like you two have a bit of a history from the previous year. Sure, it’s your first official date, but does all that friendship building you went through - and you said  _ two months  _ of sleeping in the same bed- mean nothing? And, how have you not discussed the bedroom?!”

“No! Of course it doesn’t mean nothing! And, I don’t know!” Draco gesticulated wildly into the floo. His knees were so sore. 

“Well, then maybe you should clarify with him what these dates mean? Where are they going? Are you just having fun? Do you want a long term commitment? You said he’s living with friends as a live-in baby sitter, is that what he plans on doing forever? And, you know, what are his kinks. You have to talk about these things, Draco!”

“Oh, Salazar! When did you become such a relationship guru?” He was exasperated and nettled. He felt like his choices and behaviors were being scrutinised. 

“When Blaize and I went to marriage counseling, dear.” She deadpanned. “I just don’t want you getting hurt. He sounds lovely, really. And clearly, he makes you happy. Even though it’s only been one date.” She added poignantly. “But, seriously,  _ com-mun-i-cate.” _ She enunciated dramatically, gesticulating ridiculously to punctuate each syllable. 

He had eventually agreed to communicate properly with Harry before ending the call. 

Draco had spent the next few days reliving that date, that final kiss, spending an alarming about of time wanking. In addition, he was sending a constant stream of letters back and forth with Harry. Their correspondence becoming more and more flirtatious. More and more bold. Well, to be fair, Harry had been bold from the beginning, that was sort of his way. It was Draco that was becoming bold. Feeling brave. Feeling safe. But all the while the nagging threat of Pansy’s words dancing in the background. Wrapping themselves around Draco’s boggart and twisting his newfound excitement into more nervous doubt. 

In their letters, Draco was meeting Harry’s double entendres with explicit requests. Draco who had earmarked a page in one of the more sadistic manuals of gay eroticism that had found his way into his collection. He had drawn a black ink box around a passage he had particularly enjoyed, writing in the margin “You wanted to know my weaknesses, my secrets. Here’s a fantasy of mine.” 

He felt elated and terrified. He wanted to keep flirting with Harry, pushing the limit, but he knew he would have to sit down and talk about expectations with him, and soon. Knew that owl-Draco and in-person Draco had very different limits. 

Between his numerous owls with Harry, Draco had spent his time bouncing from Luna, Hermione, and Beatrice. Luna smiled slyly every time she caught Draco grinning to himself and, when asked why she was looking at him like that, she only responded with, “Your nargle infestation has diminished significantly.” 

Hermione, on the other hand, insisted they were doing research. Draco wasn’t convinced. Hermione claimed they were making progress, Draco felt more like they were banging their head against a brick wall. 

“I have a new theory.” She had told him with a shifty look in her eye, after hours of scanning ancient texts. 

“Would you care to expound?” Draco asked, really craving a distraction from all this latin text. 

She eyed Draco critically for a moment before answering. “No. Not yet. I need to do a bit more reading first. It won’t make any sense otherwise.” She said airily,

Draco had sighed dramatically and continued to scan his medieval tome on thestral lore from the depths of the DoM’s own private library. He noticed Hermione had shot him calculating looks the rest of the evening, and his nascent interest in her new theory piqued. 

And, Beatrice, oh Beatrice. Well, she only agreed with Pansy, increasing Draco’s anxiety and filling him with guilt every time he and Harry shared another salacious note. She insisted that Draco analyse his limits and clearly communicate them, lest he create another scenario like he had in the forest. One where the tension inevitably builds until he panics and flees.  

Uhg. He would have to talk to Harry. Get some clarification. Remind him that while, yes, Draco was feeling braver, more sure, enjoying the security of exploring sexuality through writing letters, he was still afraid of sex. Still fearful of intimacy. Still worried about what he could give to Harry. Afraid of his own intense feelings for the other man. 

Buzzing with nervous anticipation, he scribbled on a small piece of parchment. 

 

_ Harry,  _

_ Can we get coffee? I think we should talk more.  _

_ -Draco _

__________

June 18, 2009

Draco was seated in his favorite muggle coffee shop. The one that he normally frequented with Greg, where no one ever recognised the two of them. Where no one would recognise Harry Potter. The one with the delicate spindle-legged chairs and sinful, chocolate monstrosity cake. He had gotten there 30 minutes early and was a complete wreck. He was sweating and his hands were clammy. He felt irrationally embarrassed about meeting with Harry, especially after some of their letters. He sat with rigid posture in his chair, perched on its very edge, anxiously shredding a discarded sugar packet. 

Every time the bell at the door tinkled, Draco’s nerves inched just that much closer to a full blown meltdown. Why was he so nervous? This was just Harry. They were just going to  _ talk _ . Nothing dramatic about that, right? 

He had to keep reapplying a freshening charm to himself undercover, lest he be a sweaty mess by the time Harry arrived. 

At long last, Harry’s mop of black hair appeared in the doorway, effectively shutting down Draco’s brain and increasing his already rapid heart rate. 

Merlin, he was so far gone for this man. 

Absolutely hopeless. 

When Harry spotted Draco, he couldn’t stop the smile from brightening his face, and he made his way over without taking his eyes off of him. 

“Draco.” He said, stopping in front of his table, and leaning down with an air of complete ease and familiarity to plant a chaste kiss to Draco’s cheek. 

“Hi.” He said breathlessly, stupidly. Godric, how could Harry render him this speechless? He was beet red, he knew it. And felt somehow wrong footed that Harry had had the thoughtfulness to greet him so tenderly, so much more bravely than Draco could have done in that moment. 

He plopped down unceremoniously across from Draco, smiling widely at the way Draco continued to blush. 

“You know,” he said with that smug, self assured voice, “if I had known how flustered and speechless you get with a peck on the cheek, I would have started doing it back in school.”

“Oh, do shut up,  _ Harry. _ ” Draco attempted to drawl, but it came out more of an awkwardly huffed reprimand. The fact that he was smiling didn’t help either. 

Harry only smiled more in response, narrowing his eyes slightly. 

“So, you thought we should talk some more?” Harry prompted. “Our owls weren’t explicit enough for you?” 

Draco had been taking a nervous sip of his tea to give himself something to do, and promptly choked on it. 

Spluttering, Draco looked at him with bemused incredulity while Harry continued to smirk. “Must you?” Draco reprimanded, hand to his chest. 

The waiter came over to take their order and Draco tried desperately to compose himself, grateful for the break in Harry’s intense focus. 

After the waiter left, there was an unsure silence between them as Harry waited for Draco to expound. 

“I thought we should talk about… about where this is going… and about the owls we’ve been sending.” Draco said, trying his hardest to maintain eye contact and not squirm under Harry’s singularly focused gaze. 

“And I thought you said one date was too soon to decide.” Harry countered, seeming surprised by Draco’s topic of choice. 

“Yes, I did say that.” He conceded. “But, it’s been brought to my attention that perhaps we should work on communicating our expectations. Especially about-” You can do this, Draco. He thought to himself. “About sex.” 

“Okay.” Harry said kindly. “And what might your expectations be?” Draco felt the soft whisper of Harry’s spellwork spiral around them. He had cast  _ Muffliato _ , though his focus never seemed to have moved from Draco. 

Draco pressed his fingers into his eyes for a moment and sighed heavily. Honestly felt so embarrassing sometimes. At least he didn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing his meltdown. Small mercies. 

“I’m not ready to have sex, yet.” he said, finally. Dropping his hands away from his bright red face. When he looked to Harry, all he could see was fond exasperation. 

“That’s okay, Draco, neither am I. The owls we send are supposed to be fun, and they don’t have to create an expectation.”

Draco blew out a sigh of relief, but wanted to make sure he was getting everything out. “But, I mean what I’m saying in the owls. I just- I just don’t think I’m ready for it in practice.”

Harry chuckled softly. “I’m not either Draco. This is okay. The first time isn’t going to be full of all the kinks in the books, I’m not sure if you remember but I’m not exactly well learned in the art of gay sex. Or sex at all, really. Pretty shit at it, if you ask anyone I’ve slept with.”

“I just really like you, and I don’t want to fuck this up because I’m saying things in letters that I can’t live up to at the moment.” He said feeling a little defeated.

Harry’s eyes were kind and soft and his expression was open. Draco felt like he might puke. “What if we get that far and I can’t do it. What if you  _ hate _ having sex with me?! What if-”

Harry snorted a tender laugh and reached across the table to squeeze one of Draco’s failing hands. “Draco, I’m not going to hate having sex with you-”

“You don’t know that! I don’t even know if I’ll be able to!” He felt a little frantic, incapable. “Just the thought of opening up again makes me want to get up right now and run.” He looked pleadingly at Harry, just to convey just how pained about this he was. 

Harry’s expression became even softer and he dropped his voice. “Draco, why are you assuming that you’ll  _ have  _ to bottom for me?”

The question stopped all rational thought. He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t even think he had any brain cells left. He never, ever, once considered that Harry wouldn’t have that expectation of him. The silence stretched and Harry must have read Draco’s wide eyes and stunned expression correctly. 

Harry’s smile was a bit sad. “See,  _ this,  _ this right here is what we need to be talking about.” Draco felt overwhelmed all over again and he rubbed his eyes. When Draco looked up he saw Harry giving him that adoring smile that made him melt. “Draco, can I be completely honest?”

Draco felt instantly wary, sitting up straighter, more alert Was the shoe about to drop? “Yes?”

“Like, completely, brutally, honest?” 

“Yes… Of course.” He said stiffly. 

Harry took a deep breath. “If I’m being terrifyingly honest with you,” he began, reaching again to grab one of Draco’s hands and squeezing it reassuringly, “then I need you to know that I’m ass over tits for you, and that despite the fact that I feel an overwhelming amount of lust for you, I’m not ready. And, it’s completely, 100%, perfectly, okay that you’re not comfortable bottoming. It’s actually something I had imagine that I would want to do, but I’m also not there yet.”

Draco sighed and sagged a little in his chair. His boggart was wilting under the look Harry was directing towards him. 

“Not only am I ass over tits for you, but I want to make sure there’s room for you in my future, so I’m going to do this properly. This next year is going to be tough, yes, because it’s so important for me to focus on my recovery. And I can’t even let my adoration of you get in the way of that-”

“I would never want to jeopardise that, Harry.” Draco interrupted, a pleading note in his voice. 

“I know that.” Harry said softly. “So, this year may be compiled of random coffee dates, sprinkled with grand romantic gestures, and if we’re lucky, some good snogging.” He waggled his eyebrows at Draco, whose nervous posture finally relaxed as he rolled his eyes. “But, whatever this is,” he gestured between them, “isn’t just a fling. And, it isn’t just about sex. And, I’m really hoping these dates we go on lead to something more serious, more stable. I want my future to include you in it. Sex can wait. We have ages to figure it out. And, when it happens, it will be when we both are at a point where we can enjoy it, together. We don’t have a deadline we need to meet.”

Draco just looked at him feeling overwhelmed again, but not in a bad way. He didn’t know how words worked anymore. 

“A response would be nice.” Harry goaded with a small, slightly insecure smile. 

“I would really love that.” Draco said, finally finding his words, his voice shaking a little. “Thank you.” 

Harry’s face relaxed and their waiter broke the moment, bringing their plates of cakes to them. 

They ate in silence for a moment, Draco trying to figure out how to convey his feelings. “I’m not good at talking about how I feel, like you are.” Draco said. “I’m trying to be. I’m trying to be better at communicating. And, I want to be honest with you about what I’m feeling, even though it’s terrifying sometimes.” He was looking at his cake while he said it. 

Harry’s fork came into view as he took a big piece off of Draco’s plate. “You need boundaries with me Draco, like I’ve been telling you. I tend to push. Don’t let me. Don’t let me make you feel uncomfortable, ever. I need to know.” Draco’s eyes followed it back to Harry’s face and he saw the confident smirk back on his lips. 

“So, are you saying you’re still happy to continue letting me court you, even though I’m not ready to have sex yet either?” Harry asked. 

“Yes, I am.” Draco smiled. “And, I’m also saying that I would like you to be in my future too.”

“Okay. Then I think we should go on some more dates to start planning it together.”

“How about dinner next week, then?”

“I’d love that. Why don’t we spend the next week thinking about our limits and expectations and on our next date we can talk about them.”

Draco felt like his heart would burst. “Okay.” He said, smiling softly. “It’s a date.”

Harry beamed at him. “But, before we get ahead of ourselves, let’s focus on the date we’re currently on. Tell me how unemployment is treating you. Hermione seems particularly frantic lately about your research.”

“Has she told you she’s working with me yet?” Draco asked curiously. 

“Oh, no, she has not. I’m sure she’s too worried I’ll start stalking you again.”

Draco laughed at the notion. 

They spent a few comfortable hours sharing cake and drinking too much tea. Bidding a chaste farewell, Harry planting another soft kiss on Draco’s cheek, they reluctantly parted. 


	12. Reclaiming

##  Reclaiming

July 10, 2009 

 

“Harry.” Luna’s voice was almost pandering. It was infuriating. 

He was sitting across from her, his legs and arms crossed, one foot jingling. It had become a familiar stance for him. 

“Luna, I just want to be able to be close to someone. Why can’t I have that? Why can’t I? We’ve had five dates. Five. Dinners. I’m fine with going slow. I’m not doing this for the promise of pleasure. All this is making me do is feel distracted. And like I’m hyperfocusing on sex, and I don’t want to. I want to be positive about it, to think of sex as something good and normal and for fuck’s sake I was wrapped up in so much unhealthy self flagellating doubt about it for so long…I don’t want that.” He was so angry, he was nearly crying. His voice was thick in his throat. Therapy these days kept making him feel trapped. Kept pushing him toward things that made him feel out of his depths.

Luna was watching him, but her face was impassive, as always. 

“For Godric’s sake, I’m not trying to replace intimacy with sex. I’m not.” Harry had uncrossed himself, and he was leaning toward Luna, his face open, his palms up toward her.  “I just want  _ him _ . It’s that simple.” 

Luna had one eyebrow raised, and Harry was so furious with her, he couldn’t focus. He let out a veritable roar of anguished frustration, rising from his chair to pace up and down her little office. He let his magic swirl away from him, manifesting as a breeze that rustled the paperwork across Luna’s desk and the leaves of the houseplant by her armchair.    
  
“Ok. I believe you.” 

Harry had stopped his pacing and looked at her, her eyes now downcast on the pad of paper she had been taking notes on.

“Luna. Everyone has always been worried about me, how sick I was, how I was making poor choices and not coping, except for the one time I actually wasn’t coping - the one time I really was dying, and trying to die. And, even then, I knew I was sick. Trust me to know when something feels good. Feels right.” 

“Okay, Harry. I trust you. And I’m more pleased to hear that you trust yourself. That’s what this exercise was about, wasn’t it? Did you not come to the group with feelings you did not comprehend? Do you now feel as though you have a handle on them? Comprehend them?”

“I do.” Harry said, sitting on the arm of the grey sofa across from Luna, one he had spent much time agonising, crying and pleading with her over. One where he had curled up and talked to her about wanting to die. And now, the place he argued with her that he was at peace with himself, for the first time in many years. He was at peace with desire, with lust. He didn’t feel out of control. If anything, he felt too in control, and, he had admitted earlier that session, as an addict, that is usually quite a good thing, though it felt even too constraining in this case. It felt unnecessary. He wanted freedom. He didn’t want the rules. 

Harry had known why she had done it - why she had tested him. It was a good learning experience. He had learned how to check himself, how to be challenged and exercise his control. He could apply this method to other things. Coffee, even. His magic simmered around him, hanging in the air, crackling with the tension that wrapped around Harry’s very bones.

“Harry, I just want you to remember it’s early days still. Recovery is a very long process, and it may change as you change, as time goes on. You came here and talked about pleasure, talked about how it hurt you, lied to you, captivated you. Then, you were the one to raise doubts about your ability to coexist with pleasure in a healthy way. Your ability to keep one separate from the other. These are issues that you brought to me and we are trying to manage together. I am happy for you to relax your own rules now, but don’t expect this question to go away overnight.” She flipped the long braid, laced with flowers, little buttercups, over her shoulder as she wrote near the bottom of the page across her lap. 

“Sometimes, things creep up on you, things you never expected to. That’s what my mother used to say, anyway. I’d rather we were cautious.” She was looking back up at him, her large eyes taking in every detail of his dirty jeans and scuffed trainers. A line of worry had crossed her face, one he had not seen there since the first day he had come to her, when he had told her everything. 

Harry slumped a bit on the sofa arm. “Your mother? Luna, what do you mean?” 

“Oh, she struggled with drugs, didn’t you know? Psychoactive substances. Though, sometimes other things. Muggle stuff, mostly, with which she often experimented with her own magic. She used to say she was in love with the escape. With the ideas of what was possible. With the feelings she could create. She would say she was looking to discover new emotions. It was what eventually killed her, though she was sober for the several years just before that. It’s why I got into this line of work.” 

Harry’s mouth was hanging open, staring at Luna. “Luna, you never told me.” 

“Didn’t I? Well, no matter, now you know.” Luna was packing away her notebook and rearranging some of the items across her desk. She looked uncharacteristically stiff in her movements, tired, even. 

“I think that’s quite enough for today, don’t you?” She was smiling at him, in her way. Harry nodded back, sensing how she had closed the conversation, had not invited more questions, more discussion. He had never heard her speak at all about why addiction, why muggle and magical mixed, why any of the things she did. She was just Luna, and he supposed he didn’t need much convincing around the why. 

Harry moved from his perch on the sofa to open the solid oak door that Luna had charmed to be more than just a physical barrier to her personal office, a room that doubled as a space to see individuals, depending on the context. The plain oak ensured that secrets shared within the room would stay there, and it was warded such that no one could disturb a session in progress. As the mechanism clicked to allow the door to swing open, Harry heard a voice just outside mutter, “oh thank the Gods.”

Hestia was there, her long braids held back under a thorny ring of bramble. 

“Tom called from the Leaky. Greg just left to go and get him.” 

Luna sighed heavily from her desk, and Harry looked between the two women, their normally carefree countenances marred with apprehension, with worry. 

“What’s going on?” Harry asked the knowing silence between them.

Luna spoke first, Hestia looking to her for guidance. 

“Dennis.” She said simply, leaning back in her chair, rubbing her eyes, moving to undo her braid and, one by one, remove the little yellow flowers from her hair. Harry had never seen her look so exhausted. 

“Fuck.” He was unsure what else to say, suddenly so incredibly troubled by the idea of Dennis drinking. Dennis, drunk at the Leaky Cauldron. Relapsing. 

Dennis had spoken at the meeting yesterday. He had been proud of his progress. Hopeful, even. What had changed? 

Harry felt an icy uncertainty spread around his limbs, winding its way through his gut. Were relapses so easy? Was there no warning? Had they missed something, as a group? Could you fall so far in just twenty four hours alone? 

Harry glanced between Luna and Hestia again, not able to hide the questions, the doubt, the subsequent anguish, from his searching looks. 

“It’s ok, Harry. We have him. Go home. We can discuss in group tomorrow. This isn’t Dennis’ first time slipping, and we have a plan in place.” 

A plan? A relapse plan? Harry’s ears were ringing. Hestia was taking his arm and guiding him down the hall. She was pouring comfort and calm with her earthy magic, rising up from the floor like petrichor. 

Hestia paused at Luna’s circular front door, the golden shimmer of “Lost souls and dreamers welcome here” draped around them. 

“He’ll be ok, Harry.” Hestia’s voice was a balm, a soft and reassuring touch, but Harry could clearly see the sadness that crossed her face. She had a heart that could hold love for everyone she’d ever met and all the living souls in between. 

“Why?” Harry’s voice came out strained, and he felt oddly childlike asking. Why do people relapse sounded like many a pamphlet he had read, but what he meant was why Dennis, why now? 

Hestia looked down at her black painted nails a moment, both of them hovering just beyond the doorway, sheltered from the afternoon drizzle by Luna’s wisteria vine, blooming lazily in the humidity, the heat. 

“Dennis, like me, struggled to ever leave the war behind.” Hestia ran her fingers along one of the large, grape-like clusters of hanging purple flowers as she spoke, errant petals fluttering away and drifting down to the ground by their feet.

“Eventually, I chose a new life. I chose to find beauty in the living things around me. I grew so tired of death, of pain, of suffering. I wanted meaning. I wanted all of that horror to mean I was free to choose the verdant sprigs of life and the vernal pull of love.” As she slid her hand along a second wavering bell of blooms, a praying mantis, bright green and full of mischievous magic of it’s own kind, came away, nestled in her palm. 

“Dennis couldn’t leave the war behind, because he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Colin behind. Of being the only one left alive who cares for his memory, who keeps it. And to keep it, he must think of the war. To live there, in the moments of his brother’s bravery.” 

Hestia’s dark amber eyes met Harry’s gaze. “When he misses Colin, when he feels the world is forgetting him, he drowns it away. He used to say he’d get drunk enough to hear his voice again, to keep him close. To not forget.” 

And Harry felt as though the ice that had been snaking around his insides had seized his heart. Fear trickled through him. He knew so acutely what Hestia described. The pain, the terror of forgetting - leaving behind those who no one else was carrying. Memories that could die with him. For Dennis, it was Colin, but for him, it was Sirius. 

“I have to go.” The words felt sticky in Harry’s mouth, coated in fear.

He felt Hestia’s hand grab for his as he moved from under the wisteria and out into the rain. Her fingers just slid past his, and he didn’t look back, breaking into a run before spiralling into the crushing darkness of apparition. 

Wingbeats sounded from the garden as a thestral took flight into the rain. 

___________

 

“ _ Returning so soon? _ ” The hiss was soft, punctuated by the pitter patter of fat droplets on the stone steps of number 12 Grimmauld Place. Harry had been returning nearly once a week since his first visit back, spending each day replacing layers and layers of ancestral magic - magic that was dark and twisted with hate, that oozed and seeped the coppery smell of blood and malice. 

“ _ Full of troubles today, I see. _ ” The adder’s orange eyes were bright against the black ironwood door, tongue flipping into the air. To the adder’s left, thestrals were thick in the foreground of the forest scene, nipping at each other, rearing up and taking flight, restless. Harry didn’t know if the serpent had meant him or the death-beasts. Or both. Or, were they one in the same? 

Harry looked up at the writhing snake around the old brass knocker. “ _ Always _ .” 

The ironwood door opened of it’s own accord, the wards shimmering around Harry as he stepped into the arched foyer. The normal dark and dusty smell had dissipated a bit, as he had spent nearly every visit standing here, working on the first floor of the ancient house. The lighting was brighter, curtains pulled back to let rays of sunlight in from the high arching windows in the sitting room. One night, the kitchen hearth had even rumbled to life, expanses of copper pots hanging above it warming it’s fiery glow.

Harry moved to the familiar stairwell. One he had yet to venture up. The higher floors of the house still felt dark, twisted and captivating. The magic there still full of the allure, the promise of oblivion, of hatred, of how easy darkness becomes. 

Harry felt his legs moving him up each step automatically, each a flashback to the times where he was feverish with need, propelling himself into the swirling comfort of escapism.  The comfort of the pain of the war, the memories of those he loved - the reassurance of the familiarity of it. The comfort of the ritual. 

Harry had passed Regulus’s room in a daze and alighted to the hall of Sirius’s. It was dark as ever, the smell of metal thick and purulent in the stale air. Harry could hear his own pulse thudding in his ears, and the thrum of magic that had been building since he left the foyer was arching into a crescendo, ringing, like cicadas in the summer night after seventeen years of fitful sleep, now desperate in their quest for noise, more and more of them joining the fray. Harry could feel his heart in his chest and the pull of each breath and the sound of his own swallow as he tried to focus himself, tried to drown out the cacophony of noise, grating, vibrating, shuddering noise that was raking around his thoughts like nails beneath his skull. 

Until a singular note of thought broke through. 

_ Is this what Dennis felt?  _

_ Is this the moment before a relapse?  _

_ Is this the feeling of the rest of your brain going dark and the desperation of escape becoming the singular goal?  _

_ Yes. I think it is.  _

As soon as Harry let that singular thought enter the part of his brain that was still cognisant, he focused upon it, seized it, like the moment of quiet in the overwhelming storm of sound. 

The singular fact of knowing that his brain was creating the illusion of panicked chaos, of fear, of need, made him feel as though a small space between the noise had opened up. Space for him to think just a moment longer, a little deeper. Space for his thoughts to be heard.

_ This is the feeling of needing to escape. But what do I need to escape from? I am okay. I like being sober. I like my life. I want to live.  _

And like that, the noise around him was dampened, the incessant vibration of cicadas muffled and pushed aside. His heart was slowing, and his breaths no longer so haggard. 

And with each passing second, Harry felt himself holding stronger, on surer footing, more in touch with his limbs and the sense of his own body, his own self. And it was glorious, to feel so in control. To know that he had met with the moment of weakness that would have broken him, would have stolen him, and had survived it. Today was not his day to relapse. Today was just another day in recovery. A day he had mastered. 

He hadn’t realised he had closed his eyes, but when he opened them, the hall was dark and quiet. 

His magic, as if it had been waiting for him to call upon it, burst forth from his hands and pushed back against the festering coils of spellwork, of despair. The gold latticework of Harry’s magic spun itself into the walls and along the ceiling, pulled deep into the ancient floorboards beneath dusty carpets and Harry’s own blood stains. 

He stepped forward down the hall, past the closet that had terrified him, the door still nailed shut, streaks of blood pulling away from it across the peeling wallpaper. 

_ I am okay. I survived. I choose life.  _

And he walked down the hall, pausing at the doorway to Sirius’s old room, most of which had been vanished by Draco’s own spellwork the year before, just the old furniture and mattress left, none of the mess, the spoils of Harry’s old life. 

Harry stood there awhile, letting his magic weave it’s way around the room, removing the dark and replacing it with brilliant strands of intricate gold, of light. Reclaiming. 

He could feel it pouring out of himself, out of his comfort, of his knowing that he had mastered himself, had met the pull of oblivion, and today, he had won. 

As he peeled away the slick and putrid remains of the old magic, Harry felt something new beneath it, something soft and careful. Something not dark and reeking of copper, but something that felt like the quiet moment when a fern unfurls itself in the undergrowth of the forest, still wet with the morning rain. The sound of the river rushing nearby. The call of birds in the trees and the break of sunlight over the mountains in the distance. Something careful, but brilliant. Beautiful. Serene. 

Harry had never felt this magic before, especially not here, and he fumbled for a second, seeking it out, tracing it’s roots, letting it pull him toward it. There was a familiarness there. A sense of something. Something that smelled of dragonhide and tasted of a kiwi, just under-ripe, bursting with flavor, tempered with the smell of woodsmoke, the crackle of wet logs popping on the fire. 

Harry followed the pull of this new magic, magic he could not believe he had never noticed, too suffocated in his own misery, too dull and dampened by the drugs he had always needed to be so near to his godfather’s things. 

His godfather. Sirius. That’s who this magic belonged to. And a ripple of pain cut so quickly and sharply through Harry, he sucked a breath in. For how much he missed him still sat so close to the surface, grief he had never known had to abate. 

Harry flipped the disgusting mattress over with a flick of his hand and his hands ran along the floorboards that had hidden beneath the ratty old bed. The magic pulsed through to his palms and called to him. Harry gripped an old floorboard in a little cut out corner and pulled it up easily, revealing a little hidden cubby beneath. 

Harry didn’t hesitate to reach in and remove the little wooden box that was slotted there, dusty but smooth with human touch. Walnut, the wood dark and rich and fed by the contact with skin. 

The magic he had felt seemed to fall upon him in blissful, rolling waves, gentle and undulating like deep, contented laugher. Sirius’s laugh. 

Opening it, Harry was met with parchment. Rolls of it. Scraps and pieces and essays worth. Some tied with ribbon, others folded, a few looked like they had meant to be little animals at one point. There may have been thirty or fourty in the box, all covered in scrawling handwriting, the ink old, but not yet faded. 

Harry gingerly removed a long bit of parchment, one that looked well read, the edges blunted with repeated handlings and re-readings. Harry unfurled it, overcome with curiosity. 

 

_ Moony,  _

_ I’ve loved you since fifth year, though I wasn’t brave enough to admit it until sixth. And, I’ve loved you through every waxing and every waning of every moon since.  _

_ You kept me alive. You kept me whole when everything threatened to break me apart. Memories of you kept me strong in a place of abject despair. They still do.  _

_ Twelve years I lasted on just the thought of how you used to run to the forest edge at dusk, and I’d hear you laughing, how it would catch me, fill me up with the thrill of seeing you so open, so free.  _

_ Some nights you’d want me to chase you. Like that night just after our potions final in sixth year. Do you remember? The night you first let me kiss you, there in the forest, in the glade full of foxglove and fairy rings. The one that always smells like it’s just rained.  _

_ There was never any fear between us, Moony. I loved the wolf in you just as much as you loved the man in me, and everything that came with it. All of our hidden selves we shared and you were everything I’d never needed. You still are. Twelve years and my love for you hasn’t wavered, hasn’t aged, it’s just as fiendish and consuming as it was that night I kissed you and you kissed me back.  _

_ Some day, we’ll run again through the thickets and chase each other between ancient elms. Between banks of ferns and hidden streams. And, you’ll let me catch you, just as you used to. Because, that’s all I’ll need to be happy, Moony, you and our freedom. Let me chase you. Let me catch you and let me love you. Wholly, completely.  _

_ Until then, come visit me often in this veritable hell, we’ve twelve years of shagging to catch up on.  _

_ \- Sirius _

 

Harry’s mouth was hanging open, staring down at the parchment in front of him. He flipped it over to the other side. 

 

_ Pads,  _

_ You romantic sap. I kissed you, because you were prattling on about us not seeing each other over the summer holiday and I couldn’t take it anymore.  _

_ You tasted like apple cider and maybe a single glass of mulled wine for bravery, and I’ve never for a moment stopped loving you. How could I?  _

_ Yes, come chase me. Then keep me.  _

_ I’ll come by Saturday.  _

_ \- RJL _

 

Harry felt a laugh bubble up inside him. A laugh, but really just joy. Sirius was gay? Sirius and Remus were together? He was wrong to imagine Sirius without any love in his life. His life, it seemed, had been nothing but love for his dearest friend, he had just been quiet about it. Subtle. And no one would have expected that from Sirius Orion Black. 

Harry reached in the box and picked up another small letter, eager to know more, to revel in the idea that Sirius had been happy, that he and Remus had shared laughter and joy and love between the horrors of the war. 

 

_ Pads,  _

_ Do you think Harry is onto us? Was the joint Christmas present a giveaway? When can we tell him? He is so stressed these days, and I’d think he’d be happy for us. Happy to hear we’re busy being happily in love. He worries about you, you know.  _

_ \- RJL  _

 

Harry pulled his knees to his chest, grinning. They had given him a gift together. Together. Of course. He flipped the parchment to see Sirius’s familiar hand, much less scratchy and more refined than Lupin’s scrawl. 

 

_ Moony, _

_ Soon. I think it’s about time I sat him down and talked about sex and relationships and all of that nonsense, anyway. He’s about that age, and I’m sure the Dursleys didn’t tell him anything and I’d imagine Molly will wait until he’s 35 before she thinks it’s time.  _

_ He’s got to know it’ll be okay and everything’s a bit confusing at that age, but he’ll find his way. We did, didn’t we? And, you’re a wolf (I say that with a raised eyebrow and a wink, because there’s nothing I like more than you and your need to rut) and my parents gave me a book on how to goad a woman into a pureblood marriage binding ritual and, for the love of all things holy, we owe it to the next generation of kids to just tell them that love is beautiful and normal and they should just be safe and careful with their hearts (and other parts).  _

_ Anyway, come help me devise a lecture plan? I’ve got so many ideas, I’ll need to work out the kinks. (I’m winking again, Moons - I’m such a dog, get it?).  _

_ \- Sirius _

 

Below it, a reply simply in Lupin’s scratchy writing read. 

 

_ Oh, now that’s just horrible. Very naughty. I’ll be there tonight, you animal. _

 

Harry rested his chin on his knees and hugged them to himself. Sirius’s huge personality and unapologetic lust for life was shining through, even in these little scraps of correspondence. It was unfair that he had died. It was painful, still, but knowing he had spent his last years being playful and in love, writing letters and having secret romance, it warmed Harry. It seemed to lay salve along a wound that had been open so long he hardly even noticed how much it hurt anymore. 

Harry was pulled from his thoughts by the feeling of his wards giving way, the sound of the front door slamming open and shut, and the thudding of steps up the stairs. 

Harry had stumbled to his feet, but before he could cross the room to see who it was, Draco’s red, sweaty and panicky face appeared in the doorway. 

“Harry.” The man choked out, his chest heaving from sprinting up the stairs. 

“Draco, what are you doing here? What’s wrong?” Harry felt fear radiating off of him, and it gripped him, freezing him to the spot. 

“What’s wrong? What do you mean what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Draco was staring at Harry, then over his shoulder and around the room. Harry felt his eyes rove over his bare arms, and he reflexively crossed them, now aware of what the fear was about, the panic. 

“Explain, please.” Harry’s voice was cold and hard and he couldn’t hide the irritation that refluxed up at the idea that Draco would think he would hide something like a relapse. That Draco had expected him to relapse at all. 

Draco didn’t say anything, but pulled a letter from his pocket, one that bore Hestia’s signature flowing script.

 

_ Draco, _

_ Worried about Harry. Please check on him. He looked like he was going somewhere he wouldn’t be found.  _

_ \- Hestia  _

 

Harry feels himself fill with anger at first. He’s being nannied, and no one trusts him. The suspicion felt like a betrayal. Like they didn’t believe he was capable of being an adult, taking care of himself.

After a moment, however, the anger subsided down into the fact that Harry had people who cared, and who worried, and who had a pretty valid reason to be worried. He had come here to die once, that was true, he couldn’t fault them for remembering that. 

He uncrossed his arms and stepped toward Draco, pulling him into a firm hug, one that recognised that Draco’s fear was because he cared. Because, he too had seen Harry dead, in this very room, had known the depths that Harry had fallen. 

He felt Draco melt into his hold, and Harry let the tension and the anxiety bleed away, his feet firmly planted, supporting the other man’s weight, wanting him to know he was still strong. 

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Harry’s voice was soft into the sudden quiet of the room. He let his magic meet Draco’s, run across his skin, let him know he was not here to be oblivious. Not here to use. He was here to reclaim. 

“Someone from our meetings relapsed. A friend of mine.” Harry wanted Draco to understand, wanted to open the door to himself. The place where he was scared and vulnerable. The place that watched someone relapse and felt the ground shake beneath his feet, watched someone lose their sobriety in a moment of respite from the constant battle for control. For the tiredness that is life in recovery. A place that wondered when he too would tire. When he too would be too fatigued to fight. 

“That’s why Hestia was worried. She was right. It bothered me. He was in the meeting yesterday, happy, sober, like normal.” 

It felt good to tell him. To share the sadness of it. 

“He lost people, in the war. He lost them and he feels alone in carrying their memory. Like they won’t matter if he doesn’t stay grieving. I… understand, I guess. Hestia says they relapse because it’s too painful to let go of the war when the war is the only place memories of those you love live.” 

Draco pulled back from the hug to look into Harry’s eyes. 

“Sirius.” 

“Yeah,” Harry looked away from the kindness in Draco’s face, kindness that was edged in worry. The vulnerability of it was astounding. Destabilizing. He had never had the courage to talk to anyone about Sirius. Not even Ron and Hermione, who had tried for years to get Harry to grieve, to grieve and let go. To grieve and be at peace. 

“I thought the war was all he knew. That he never got a chance, never knew…” Harry had stopped mid sentence because understanding had unfurled around him. He reached for the box. The magic he had felt, that sang of the forest and freedom and the immeasurable but undeniable growth of trees, reaching up toward the sun - it was love. Love, painted full and thick and heavy across every grain of the dark wood and each dash of ink in the warn parchment. Love, every time the letters had been unfolded and read. And read again. And held, softly and dearly. It was love that was emanating from every single moment, a monument, a testament to how much Sirius had treasured Remus. 

Harry was smiling, basking in it. “Gods, Draco, I was wrong. I was so, so incredibly wrong.” 

Harry passed the box to Draco, and watched the weight of it settle in his hands, he could imagine the magic curling around his fingers. Would he recognise it, or would it take time, like it had for Harry? “Sirius lived every moment he had. He didn’t let his freedom pass him by. He just never told me.”  

“Sirius and Lupin?” Draco had scanned a tiny little letter folded like a star. 

“It seems so. I never knew he was gay. It explains how Lupin acted after his death, though. How scared he seemed to be with Tonks. He probably never told her, never felt like he could grieve. The first time he seemed really happy was when Teddy was born.” 

Harry watched Draco looking through some of the letters, his eyes widening at some of the more saucy moments of Sirius’s attempts at flirting. Harry had a feeling quite a few of those letters would be explicit. 

He watched the smile pull at the corner of Draco’s mouth. Their love was undeniable. It was pooling around every word, every moment. It was beautiful. 

“People should know they mattered, their lives were full and mischievous and happy. They were people who took every moment outside of the war and the fear and they chose to be happy.” 

“So make it known.” Draco was running his fingers across a bit of black ribbon that had tied a thick scroll shut. 

“How do you mean?” 

“You’ll think of something. Just honour their memory. Honour their happiness in a story that is otherwise dark and full of pain and imagined isolation. Maybe that is what your friend needs, too, a way to make their memory something outside of the war. Or, maybe just a memory that they alone don’t have to carry.” 

There was silence between them as Harry thought it over. The lightness he felt, even here, in a room where he had once decided to die, was undeniable. Sirius’s memory was enshrined in something outside of himself. And the jaunty smile and unyielding joy of the man was palpable, shareable. It wasn’t Harry’s alone, and it was freeing. 

“I’m glad you’re ok.” Draco’s voice pulled Harry from his thoughts, and he felt a moment of guilt for worrying him so much, reaching out to take Draco’s hand. 

“Do you still have his jacket?” Harry hadn't thought about the jacket in ages, but it suddenly came to the forefront of his mind. The thought of being wrapped in Sirius, in his magic, in his fearlessness, it no longer felt like a way to hide from the rest of the world, but an homage to him. Harry could be fearless, too. He could be unapologetically full of the clever bravado that Sirius had used to flirt with reckless abandon. Had used to charm Remus, to chase him. 

“Mm. Removed all of the blood magic when we were in the forest. You had just said to wait to give it to you when you asked for it. Are you asking for it?” 

“I think so.” Harry squeezed Draco’s hand softly. 

The smell of copper was gone from the air. 

___________

July 11, 2009

Draco had left Harry at Grimmauld Place, explaining that he had sprinted from the Ministry of Magic, leaving a very startled and disgruntled Hermione in the middle of a tirade/explanation/diatribe on the origins of born-and-die-people or some such translation. She had found it in an old scroll collection on loan from the wizarding library at Timbuktu, and it had been the breakthrough they were hoping for. It had answered questions they had yet to ask. It’s origins were in the Niger delta, sometime before the rise of Alexandria, and it chronicled the lives of souls who had been born only to die, accompanied by descriptions of the beasts they used as guides to walk between spirit worlds. Leathery black horses, winged, beaks dripping with blood.

In Nigerian traditions, the born-and-die-people were often a reference to stillborn children or miscarriages, even babies who died shortly after birth or early in childhood, but Hermione had found older legends, legends from the forest tribes that spoke of mediators of death, those who had been marked for it, those who walked in and out of the dark places of the forest with death-beasts as guides. Those who had guarded against the deaths of others. 

Harry had been quiet during Draco’s explanation. They both had felt the weight of the implication. They had both been marked for death, born and meant to die. Harry, by Dumbledore and Draco by Voldemort. 

Harry had encouraged Draco to go back to work, knowing that he would have too many questions, too much to think on, should he have stayed. He was like Hermione in that way. He’d need to be working, what with this new batch of scrolls and a whole four bins of untranslated Nri markings that expanded on these otherwise undescribed pieces of magical lore. 

Neither of them liked uncertainty. They had walked back down the stairs together, both of them pausing and Draco huffing a laugh at the sound of hooves and soft huffs that trailed behind them and around corners of the house that remained dark. 

And Harry had left him with a soft kiss in the foyer, simple and sweet, and a promise that he would be okay, that Draco could trust him to be sure in his recovery. To be safe. 

Just as Draco was stepping out from behind the old ironwood door, Harry stopped him, grabbing his hand quickly, a thought desperate to be heard, like fire on his lips. 

“I want to tell them, Draco. About us. I want to tell the people close to me. I don’t want to be like Sirius and Remus and everyone thinking I’m tragic and lonely.” He paused, trying to read Draco’s expression. “I’m not shy for everyone to know. I don’t want parts of me to be secrets.” 

“Soon.” 

Draco’s singular response had been replaying in Harry’s mind all meeting, and he was having trouble focusing as Greg talked about what fear can do. Instead, he was lost in his own thoughts and watching Dennis, who was back to his spot on the half circle leather chair, looking the same as he always had, albeit slightly red around the eyes. 

At the end of the hour, Harry hadn’t said anything of note, continuing rather to mull over his own thoughts, his plans. He caught Dennis in the hallway after the meeting and asked him to follow him into Luna’s office, where they could talk alone, closing the oak door behind them. 

As the door clicked shut, Harry felt his magic burn a little brighter.

“I’m working on something. To memorialise those we lost in the war. I want to make something for Colin. Is that okay?” Harry tried to reel in his intensity, watching Dennis recoil a bit from his blunt delivery. His right hand had come up across his heart, and Harry could see his eyes were bright. When he finally answered, his voice was quiet and raspy, and the familiar joviality that Dennis so often used was gone - the mask was off. 

“I’ll need your help. We’ll have to sit down together to do the work, and it will involve you telling me everything about Colin - about his laugh about his fears about his every whim and what caught his fancy. It will take hours, but your memories I’ll use to pour into what I’m making, to give it life, to have it echo with a feeling, so others can experience it. Is that alright?” 

Dennis was trembling, more even than usual. Tears were spilling over puffy lower lids. “You don’t have to…” And Harry was hit with the shame that Dennis carried for loving his brother so much, so much it had consumed him, so much it left no room for anything but the terrifying undertow of a grief that left him drowning all these years. 

“Dennis. The people we loved. They died. They died and it was horrible. They died and they mattered, they mattered and they deserve to be honored. They deserve to be known. Their bravery, their heart, their courage, their sacrifice - their flaws. All of it. Colin deserves to be remembered by people other than just you.” 

And Dennis was crying openly, his back up against Luna’s door, his legs giving way beneath him as he sobbed, hands over his mouth, as if to stifle the pain. Dennis had never cried in their meetings - had never broken - had always remained upbeat, supportive, enthusiastic - quick to lend a helping hand. But this, this was what had been pooling beneath that veneer. 

Harry knelt next to him and pulled him close, enfolding him into his arms and feeling Dennis’s stuttering gasping breaths against his shoulder. And Harry stayed like that, holding him close and letting him cry, until Dennis sat up, wiping his face on his shirt, his face blotchy and eyes swollen, but somehow looking as though he had been scrubbed clean of a layer of guilt. Had been given a place to put all of the sadness he’d been carrying around, weight that had been piling up atop his bony shoulders. 

“Can we start tonight?” 

“We can start tonight.” Harry’s smile was genuine and he let his magic pour from him, gentle and warm and knowing, knowing the relief of laying down the things you carry. 

______________

July 13, 2009

Harry stood, leaning his aching shoulders down over his workbench, his hands splayed out on the table beneath him. He needed a break. 

He padded to the kitchen and summoned a glass, letting the tap pour in icy cold water, the first sips of which washed away the sawdust that had gathered in his throat without his even noticing. 

Dennis had come by to Grimmauld Place the past two nights. They had sat together in one of the old drawing rooms. One that Harry had moved all of the furniture out of to convert to a work room, just a simple table and some old chairs. His workbench was in the centre of the room, across from the old Black family tapestry. He had spent the whole afternoon after the meeting preparing it, wiping the horrid, spiteful magic away, replacing it with his own calm and soothing spellwork, magic that stemmed from his desire to help, to heal. By the time Dennis had arrived, he had polished the ancient mahogany mantle, rubbed oil into the window panes, the eaves, the floorboards. He had tended to the room, had nourished it, and he could feel the ancient beams had craved it. 

Heading back to the drawing room, the oil lamps on the walls burned brighter, the house felt warmer, more welcoming. Harry had owled Hermione every few hours to keep her from worrying, and Little Dipper was snoozing in the corner on the back of one of the chairs. 

Harry’s thestral had joined them in the afternoon, too. He had simply appeared in the back of the large room without either Harry or Dennis noticing, eventually giving himself away with a snorting huff after Dennis had finished telling Harry the story of Colin coming home for the summer after his first year at Hogwarts, full to the brim with fantastical stories and bursting with excitement. He barely mentioned being petrified, waving it off as a small inconvenience. The bigger picture was the absolute magic of the wizarding world, the wonder of Hogwarts, of spells and charms and 1001 magical plants, herbs and fungi. 

Dennis had been laughing, but it changed to a scream when he realised there was a gigantic thestral just behind him, wandering over to sniff Harry’s new workbench, his wings folded neatly along his bony sides. 

Harry had apologised profusely for the inherent creepiness of his ominous companion, and promised he was really harmless, quite good natured, really. A bit of a mischievous trickster, if he’s honest. 

Dennis had to be convinced to stay with a cup of tea and much reassurance, but they made little progress after that, and eventually, he had gone home, though not before telling Harry about how he and Colin had stayed at home that year, the year of the final battle, reciting happy memories to each other, just in case they needed to cast a patronus charm, making sure they knew they were loved, were cared for. Trying to keep safe. 

Harry took another sip of the cold water, thinking over Colin and his patronus. It had been a hummingbird, zipping around the room, fast and flighty and full of energy. It had been perfect, and Colin had been thrilled. 


	13. Forest Lore and Magical Theory

##  Forest Lore and Magical Theory

July 31, 2009 

Steam filled the sterile white kitchen and the pristine counters were spattered with aromatic droplets of rich tomato sauce. Draco was leaning over his counter, hair wild with sweat and the humidity of cooking, squinting down at tattered piece of parchment covered in faded writing and years worth of food stains. 

He had spent the day lost in the meditation of making a birthday dinner for two, from scratch, and with minimal magic. Walking the muggle markets to pick out the perfect roma tomatoes, the most pungent garlic, querying the old lady at the mill about which flour was the most appropriate for pasta making, tasting the cheeses on offer, all of the steps required to build the perfect meal by hand. 

Draco didn’t know how to do big romantic gestures, but he did know how to take every component of his gift into consideration. To choose each ingredient with care. To pour his gratitude and affection into every quiet action. He may not be able to whisk Harry away somewhere and repel a thousand muggles, but he could spend eight hours making sure this dinner was thoughtful and nourishing. Something Harry would appreciate. 

Draco cast a tempus and saw that he had another two hours before Harry would arrive. He was full of nervous anticipation, yet it was tempered by a comfortable excitement. He had spent enough time alone with Harry in the past weeks to feel safer, less pressured by their relationship. But, even still, he couldn’t deny that he was desperate to impress him. To make him feel loved and cared for. To show how much he meant to Draco. 

Draco had asked his mother for this family recipe he had loved as a child. Something familiar he wanted to share. The recipe reminded him of what family should be. Togetherness, safety, nourishment. Things he felt with Harry. The recipe was also similar to the bolognese Harry had made for him last year in the forest. The first time had offered to make him dinner. 

Normally, the house elves would have done all the work, but Draco’s gift to Harry was this labour of love. He had measured the flour onto the counter and used his fingers to create a well in the centre, into which he dropped egg yolk after egg yolk. Mixing and stirring each one into the flour with intense focus until he was kneading an elastic yellow dough in his hands. He hand rolled large sheets of pasta across the length of his granite work space, and used a large cleaver to cut thin linguine-like strips. 

Half way through cutting the pasta, he was regretting his ambitious food choice, wishing he had acquired more specific utensils for the job. The large knife unwieldy in his hand, he was sweating with the effort of making each cut even, each flayed strip uniform. 

He cast an appraising look around his kitchen as he draped the last fringe of pasta over the bars of a laundry rack to wait for cooking. The old woman at the market insisted that this was the easiest way to keep fresh pasta from sticking together before it was ready to be cooked. 

The tomatoes had been steam, meticulously peeled, stewed, and milled into a thick and decadent sauce, filled with garlic, butter, basil, ground beef, oregano and bay. The salad had been assembled and the fresh mozzarella placed in its brine. The bread had been cooked, cooled, sliced, and filled with garlic butter and aged parmesan, ready again for the oven. The rich vanilla custard had been made and frozen for dessert to have with espresso. All that was left was the angel food cake and berry compote. Everything was coming together. 

He cast at the dirty dishes and levitated them to the sink where he set them to wash. His eye was distracted for a moment by his encourage-mint, which, in his benign neglect of the creeping plant over the past months, had outgrown its tiny container and begun cascading down of the window sill and towards the sink. He took a moment to prod the little charmed cloud and considered the overgrown tendrils. The angel food cake could wait a moment longer. 

________

Despite Draco’s calm confidence throughout the day and focused ritual of creating his masterpiece dinner, by the time Harry was set to arrive, he was sweating profusely and feeling nauseous with nerves. Oh god, what if Harry hated it? Does he even like pasta? He should have made something better, surely. Why did he invite Harry to his apartment? What if that sent Harry the wrong message? 

Draco was pacing. Doing laps around the apartment. Into the bedroom, to the bathroom, back to the kitchen, around the living room, and back to the bedroom. Every time he walked past the little table for two in the living room, with the two gifts wrapped in brown paper and ribbon, he doubted himself further. 

He had set the table with a traditional checkered red tablecloth. There were two bottles being used as candle holders and in a tiny vase sat a single pink camellia, looking vibrant against the green olive oil bottles. The plates were set meticulously and he cursed his compulsion to layout formal utensil placements. Would Harry even know which fork was for what?

Feeling morbidly self conscious he decided to move the two gifts to the desk on his 5th pass of the small table. 

Every time he walked to the bathroom, he cast a freshening charm on himself, berating his armpits for sweating so damn much. Why was he so nervous? He had been fine all day! It’s just Harry, for the love of Salazar. Harry, who had promised he liked him. 

Back and forth he walked, lost in his own spiraling thoughts, going deeper and deeper into his doubt, until he heard a snort from just ahead of him as he walked back out of the kitchen. Stopping his frantic steps, he lifted his head with a laugh to see Voileami standing, very out of place, on his balcony. Her awkwardly shaped head sticking in through the window, sniffing the air hopefully for raw meat. 

He walked forward to stroke her neck and said, “Sorry beautiful woman, but I’m afraid I’ve cooked all of the mince in the sauce. You should have gotten here earlier.”

She snorted again, this time indignantly, and tossed her head. He felt calmer now, but still nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a frantic pounding on his door and the sound of a panicked voice calling, “Draco! Draco! Please! Draco! Open up!”

“What the-“ he muttered to himself as he strode across the room and wrenched the door open, “Greg? What? What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

“Draco, oh thank the gods.” Greg looked stricken as he threw himself onto Draco. He was somehow pale and beet red at the same time, an impressive combination, to be sure. His hands were shaking and his face was sweating. He looked on the verge of tears, and it seemed like he was struggling to breathe. He clung to Draco’s small frame like a drowning man and Draco clumsily tried to pat him on the back while maintaining his balance, staggering backward a bit.

“Greg,” He asked again, completely bewildered, “what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“I can’t do it. I just can’t. I can’t.” He repeated nonsensically.

“What can’t you do?” Draco asked into the top of Greg’s head, feeling lost, still standing in his open door way. 

“I don’t know how anyone could think I could- I mean, I panicked and the first thing I thought was, I gotta get to the bar… what kind of person does that? And, sure, I love muggles now, but I didn’t use to! What if they’re the same?!” Greg was rambling and shaking. 

“Greg-“ He tried again, to no avail. 

“Twins, Draco! I don’t think I’m capable of one! How am I supposed to take care of two?!” He yelled, pulling back to look into Draco’s face with a pained and beseeching look. 

Draco just stared blankly for a moment, processing his words. 

_ Oh. _

He asked gently squeezing Greg’s shoulder, “Greg, is Luna pregnant?”

Greg burst into tears and fell back onto Draco, just has Harry came into view through the doorway. Perfect. Just  _ perfect _ . 

Harry froze comically mid-step at the sight of a sobbing Greg and bewildered Draco, who just shook his head in confusion to try and convey that, he too, had no idea what was happening. 

Draco, distracted as he was by the heaving lump of a man in his arms, did not miss the fact that Harry looked like a walking daydream, having donned dark grey trousers and a forest green jacket. He was holding a bouquet of ferns, lily of the valley, and what looked like the white tendrils of ivy. He had been looking hugely pleased with himself before stopping and staring at the unexpected, though honestly rather comical, sight before him.

Before either Harry or Draco could decide what to do, Greg lifted his head and and stepped back from Draco, noticing Harry. 

“Oh, hi Harry... did Luna send you?” he asked sheepishly, wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve, looking ashamed of himself. 

“Uh-“ Harry answered, but Greg was already surveying Harry’s very dapper appearance and the bouquet clutched in his hands. Distracted momentarily from his own misery, he glanced with suspicion between Harry and Draco, the pieces sliding together. “No… she didn’t send me,” Harry finally responded, “but is everything alright?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to interrupt, I shouldn’t have come unannounced-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco interrupted, waving Greg off, “come in already, both of you, we don’t need to give my neighbors anything more to talk about. Dear Mrs. Amendilla is nuisance as it is.”

Greg’s shoulders slumped in defeat and he walked past Draco and into the flat. Draco gave Harry a shy smile, who leaned in to place a sweet kiss on his cheek, fingers brushing together, as he walked in. 

“You weren’t supposed to bring  _ me _ flowers, you berk, it’s  _ your  _ birthday.” Draco chastised, his face feeling overly warm where Harry’s lips had brushed his skin.

Harry smiled slyly, but didn’t respond. With the arrival of Greg, Draco had forgotten about how nervous he had been about Harry coming for dinner, but now, walking behind him he stiffened when Harry stopped in the living room and saw the table set for two. Draco stood awkwardly waiting for Harry’s response, listening to Greg blowing his nose in the bathroom. Voileami had gone with the arrival of Greg.

“Draco, I-” He said a little breathlessly staring down at the little candle lit table, as Greg came out of the loo. 

Completely ignoring the romantic atmosphere, Greg shuffled past Harry and the little table and threw himself onto the couch. Harry and Draco exchanged concerned glances before moving as one towards him. Harry first conjuring a vase for the flowers and setting them on the table before moving to sit on the other side of Greg. 

He and Draco each had an arm around Greg and all of their knees were knocked together on the small couch. Sandwiched snuggly between Harry and Draco, Greg took a deep breath and started speaking. “We’re having twins.” he croaked, fresh tears leaking down his face. Harry catching Draco’s eyes, looking startled at the confession. 

“When did you find out?” Harry asked softly. 

“Last week we found out she was pregnant, today we found out it was twins. I was scared shitless. Still am I guess.” he shrugged. 

“It’s normal to be afraid, Greg.” Draco offered. “How does Luna feel about it?”

“You know Luna. She’s amazing and understanding and beautiful- she- she said that if it was too much for me, that she had no expectations. That she wanted to have kids because she wants to give love, and not as an extension of our relationship. I can be as involved as I want to be or not at all. Said she’d love me either way.” he sounded miserable, as if he didn’t think himself worthy of Luna’s love. 

Harry was smiling ruefully. “That sounds like Luna.”

Greg laughed with a self deprecating edge. “I don’t deserve her or these kids. I’m not capable. I’m going to fuck them up just as bad as my parents did to me and-“

“Greg, stop.” Draco intervened. “I understand you’re scared, but you are deserving and capable. You’ve put your life back together and you work your ass off every day to be a better person. The real question is, is this what you want? Do you want children?”

“I won’t be a good parent, I’m terrible with kids.” 

“That’s not what I asked you. Do you want children?” Draco tried again. 

Greg was quiet a long time, and they let the silence hang around them, anxious fingers picking at the hem of a plaid shirt. “Yes.” he admitted as if it pained him. “But, that doesn’t mean I should have them.”

“I think it means that you deserve the chance.” Harry interjected.

Tears started leaking down Greg’s face again and he covered it with his hands and mumbled into them. “I don’t want them to hate muggles.”

“With you and Luna as parents? How could they?” Harry asked incredulously. 

“I’ll have to teach them about- about my tool belt…” His sobs shaking his shoulders. “I love my tool belt…” He mumbled into his enormous palms. 

Draco bit back a smile. Indeed, Greg was wearing his tool belt now on the couch. 

“You will definitely have to teach them about your tool belt. And so many other things, too. But, you won’t be alone. It’s not entirely on your shoulders to teach them everything.” Draco reassured. 

“But… but what about my sobriety? Will I be able to do it?” He asked even more quietly, and Harry tightened his grip around Greg, protectively.

“You’re not alone in that either, Greg.” He said softly. “You’ll still do your meetings and you have friends that love you that want to help.”

“But, Luna says if we’re having children that she wants to move the meetings away from our house. And she’ll need to train someone to run things when she’s on maternity leave. And, and... and we need a new meetings space and, and I’m just so worried that this is too much change, I mean for fuck’s sake I was halfway to the bar before I realised what I was doing and came here instead.”

“And you should be really proud of yourself making that decision to come here, that couldn’t have been easy.” Draco assured. 

Greg nodded tightly, sniffling hard as Harry spoke. “Just remember that you’re not alone. Whatever you decide to do, or need, you have people around you that want to help. And, for what it’s worth, I think this fear and hesitation and awareness you have is exactly what will make you a great parent. You’re under no illusion about how hard it will be and you understand the hugeness of the job. I’m sure it feels terrifying, but you’re entirely capable if you choose to do this.”

“Thanks, mates.” Greg said, sounding a little less desperate. “I think I need to get home to Luna, she’s probably worried. I just up and fled the prenatal when the midwife confirmed it was twins…” he sounded full of shame. 

Draco and Harry moved at the same time, wrapping themselves around Greg and squeezing tightly. Draco feeling so much empathy and heartache for Greg, and sure Harry was feeling the same. 

“Go back to Luna, Greg. And don’t worry about a meeting space. I think I have an idea for that, but we’ll talk about it at our next meeting.”

Greg nodded, bracing himself for going home and facing his pregnant partner. For facing his future. He rose from the couch and glanced towards the dinner table, “And, uh- sorry about- uh, interrupting-“ he waved vaguely, awkwardly, at the table. “I didn’t know.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Draco waved dismissively. “We… we haven’t told anyone, yet.”

“Except Luna.” Harry chimed in. “And, I guess, you now.”

“Of course she knows.” Greg smiled. “Well, your secret is safe with us.”

He gave Harry and Draco each one last hug before apparating away and leaving Harry and Draco standing alone in Draco’s living room. 

“Well,” Harry said into the silence, “that was not how I was expecting this date to start.”

Draco snorted, “Neither did I.”

Harry extended his hand towards Draco, and he took it. He was pulled flush against him and held firmly. “I wanted to do this as soon I saw the table.” He said, breath ghosting across Draco’s lips, his hand on the back of Draco’s head, the other around his waist. 

“Is that one of your kinks? Tables?” Draco asked, teasingly, trying to cover his nervous anticipation, hands on Harry’s back. 

“Don’t be a prat.” Harry huffed a laugh before pulling Draco in for a slow kiss that felt like electricity running through Draco’s veins. His magic wrapping itself around Harry’s, his skin erupting in goosebumps wherever Harry’s hands wandered. Draco breathed in Harry, doused in the familiar scent of a forest after a rainstorm, fire from a lightning strike. It was intoxicating, and their kissing was becoming more heated, their hands more demanding. Harry tongue tasted like a promise in his mouth, and Draco began to forget his fears. 

Harry’s magic responded with an urgency that Draco could tell he was trying to hold back, and he remembered they were supposed to be taking this slow. He broke the kiss and their breaths were ragged with the effort it took not to jump head first into the feeling. 

“Too much?” Harry asked, his eyes were closed and his forehead was resting against Draco’s. 

“No.” Draco said, surprised by how true it was. 

Harry smiled, and tilted his chin up to look into Draco’s eyes. Perhaps to make sure Draco was still there and hadn’t floated off in a disassociation, for confirmation. 

Whatever he saw must have been enough because he pulled Draco into a hard kiss, his one hand wandering down to grip Draco’s ass and pull him closer. When he elicited a small moan from Draco, he pulled back with a smug smile, kissed him swiftly one last time and asked, “Dinner?”

_____

After being completely thrown off balance by Harry’s unbearably sexy teasing, Draco somehow managed to pull himself together to get dinner out to the table. He was honestly surprised he remembered how a fork worked. 

Over the next few hours, they slowly ate their way through the salad and bread, the bolognese topped with fresh mozzarella, the angel food cake, and the affogato, Harry offering a running commentary on what he thought about each component of their dinner. When he realized that Draco had made the entire thing from scratch, down to mozzarella and ice cream, he dropped his fork and bowed on the table. “I’m not worthy.” He had said with mock solemnity. And Draco had simply told him if he hadn’t been worthy, he wouldn’t have made it. The creeping blush on Harry’s neck was worth every second he spent slaving over his ingredients.

They spoke about Harry’s plans for Grimmauld Place, about his memorial project, his plans for the next year. They spoke about the thestrals when the two familiar specters of death appeared comically crammed together on Draco’s porch. Harry’s batting its wing out to make more room for itself and Voileami with her face smashed into the window, trapped by the limited space. Odd creatures, Draco had laughed. 

They spoke about Dumbledore and Grindelwald. The Elder Wand. And when their conversation lulled in pensive thought, Draco summoned the two gifts from his desk and pushed them towards Harry. 

“Draco, no! You weren’t supposed to get me anything on top of the dinner!” He scolded, but his smile told a different story. “You’re showing me up.”

“It’s not a competition, you git.” Draco countered with a smug smile. 

“Yeah, well, that smirk says otherwise, and it also says you’re winning. I’m on to you.” He threatened, punctuating his suspicions with a spoon, before picking up the smaller of the two gifts. “Two gifts, and dinner? Unbelievable.”

Draco didn’t respond, he just watched anxiously as Harry began to pull the moss green  ribbon off the small square box before tearing off the paper. When he opened it, the smell of the parcel immediately filled the air. 

Harry’s face melted into one of fond recognition, “Draco.” He said, tenderly pulling out his very own little pot of encourage-mint, with its own little cloud. 

Draco looked away and shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal. Like it didn’t mean anything. His insides were twisting around in joy.

“Thank you.” He said softly, rubbing the little tendrils and gazing at it with adoration. 

“Mine was overgrown and ready to replant.” Draco dismissed, trying not to feel too pleased with himself. “Open the other one.”

Harry carefully set his plant down and pulled the larger gift towards him. He had a small smile dancing on his face as he tore open the box and stared down at its contents. His smile fell away and, for a horrifying moment, Draco thought he had done the wrong thing. That he had monumentally fucked up. Harry pulled Sirius’s jacket out and gazed at it with a conflicted expression. 

He set it down carefully, stood up, and pulled Draco out of his seat and into a crushing hug. 

“Thank you.” He said with a gravelly voice into Draco’s ear. 

“Is it okay?” He asked, still a unsure with himself. 

“It’s perfect.” He sounded like he might be near tears, and Draco squeezed him tighter. “I can feel his magic.” 

Draco let out a sigh of relief. 

Harry pulled back and looked at Draco and there was no mistaking the heat in his eyes. The longing. The adoration. The desire. Draco’s mouth went dry and his palms were sweating, but he wanted Harry so badly he thought he would die if he didn’t kiss him. So he did. 

And Harry moaned into the kiss in apparent relief, gripping Draco hard as if worried he might disapparate somewhere without him. Their embrace was heated but considered. There was nothing mindlessly frantic about it. Harry was doing an admirable job of controlling himself, trying not to spook Draco with his intensity, but moving forward nonetheless. He began walking Draco back towards the couch, laying Sirius’s jacket on the back of his chair as they went. Draco was pushing Harry’s own forest green jacket off his shoulders, earning himself consenting groans and a smile against his own lips as he urged Draco on. 

Draco fell back onto the couch, pulling Harry with him, and this time Harry didn’t hold his weight back, didn’t treat Draco like fragile glass. He treated Draco like the capable and strong person he thought he was. Harry sank his full weight onto him, between his legs and onto his chest, kissing him like his life depended on it. One hand in Draco’s hair and the other also tugging at Draco’s shirt. Draco welcome the full weight of Harry on him for the first time and moaned at the contact. The feel of Harry’s erection pressing next to his through too many layers of fabric. 

Draco was fumbling with the bottom of Harry’s shirt, trying to untuck it from his waist, the single minded focus of getting his hands on more skin urging him forward. Not to be outdone, Harry was putting an equal effort on Draco’s shirt buttons. 

When he finally got his hand under Harry’s shirt, he raked his fingers down his side, and Harry shivered in response, so he did it again. Draco couldn’t believe what they were doing. Couldn’t believe he was getting this far and hadn’t fled. He was shocked with his own bravery, his own want. Relishing every kiss Harry placed on his neck as he slowly finished unbuttoning Draco’s shirt, and carefully ran his fingers across Draco’s bare skin. 

Harry gave a slight experimental roll of his hips against Draco and asked into his neck, “Is this okay?” 

Draco’s brain felt like it had short circuited with pleasure and panic, and he didn’t answer because he couldn’t think of what to say. Yes it felt good, yes he wanted to continue, but something about it felt off and scary. His silence gave Harry pause and he pulled back to look at Draco who was doing his best to stay present. Feel the feelings. Decipher the conflicting emotions. 

“I’m okay.” Draco said, too quickly. 

Harry smiled, appearing to see the warring confusion on Draco’s face. “C’mere.”

Harry sat back and pulled Draco up and onto him, so it was Draco now who was between Harry’s legs and Draco who was on top and in control. “Better?” Harry asked tentatively, breathlessly, and Draco melted into him, kissing him hard in wordless gratitude. 

“Perfect.” Draco said, voice a little raspy, and it was his turn to roll his hips cautiously. The sound Harry made into his mouth was the best thing he’d ever heard, and he realised he would probably sell his soul to keep hearing it. 

After a few more minutes of painfully slow rutting and fierce kissing, Harry’s broken voice spoke into Draco’s shoulder, “You know, we-  _ oh _ , we don’t have to do this,  _ mmmm _ , right?” 

“I know that. I want to.” He said simply, surprised at how much he meant it, running his hand down Harry’s leg and onto his ass. “Do you want to?” 

“Fuck yes.” He moaned, and the rest of Harry’s reservations and tentative movements fell away. He gripped Draco’s hips and pulled him in a rough rhythm with his own, kissing him everywhere he could reach. 

Draco had wound his hand into Harry’s hair and groaned into his neck. His fears were slowly melting with each passing moment. He was being carefully taken apart by Harry’s kind and attentive hands, his considerate mouth, his loving moans, his knowing gaze. He was safe. Even if he did panic or run or have a meltdown, it would be fine. Harry would understand. Would forgive him. Wouldn’t think less of him. 

He realised he was close, and that if Harry kept moving the way he was, with those strong hands and determined thrusts, that he would most definitely come. A ripple of apprehension shot through him, and he felt himself stiffening, suddenly unsure if he wanted to let go, cross that threshold just yet. 

Harry released his tight grip on Draco’s hips, instantly sensing the change, allowing Draco to grip his hands and set the pace. 

But, while Draco held Harry’s hands tightly, and their lips moved tirelessly, the pace Harry had been driving slowed to a stop now that it was in Draco’s hands to continue. He felt unsure of himself, too self aware to cross that threshold. Too tied up in doubt to let go. 

Harry pulled back from their kiss to look at Draco. To run his fingers through his debauched hair, to touch his face. “What do you need from me?” He finally asked, his voice was gentle and there was no judgement in his face. 

“I don’t know.” His lips felt numb from all the stubble around Harry’s mouth. Or maybe it was panic. He couldn’t quite tell. 

Harry gave him a smile. “Draco, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Draco sighed, dropping his head to lay his face against Harry’s chest. “But, I do want to. That’s the issue.”

“What do you mean?” Harry had begun running his fingers through Draco’s hair and holding him firmly against him. 

Draco was quiet for a moment, trying to piece together  _ what _ exactly he was feeling. “I just- I’m enjoying this. I am. I want to be doing this. I’m choosing it, and it’s good. But- I can’t seem to… just... let go.” His face felt too hot now, and he was feeling sweaty. 

Harry hummed in acknowledgement and Draco started to feel fidgety like he wanted to get up and go literally anywhere else. 

“Hey,” Harry’s voice cut through the slight ringing in his ears, “take a deep breath. This is fine. We can just lay here. Whatever you want, whatever you need.”

Draco did take a deep breath, but he let out a frustrated groan. He felt less like fleeing, but more irritated with himself than anything. Here he was laying on top of one of the most gorgeous men he’d ever seen, who was kind and attentive to boot, and he couldn’t just enjoy it. Couldn’t lose himself in the moment. Couldn’t have an orgasm without a nervous breakdown. 

He reeled himself in and tried to push himself off of Harry. “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to deal with my baggage.” he huffed. “This should be fun.”

Harry let Draco get up but grabbed his hand to maintain contact. “Draco, look at me.”

Draco looked back at him hesitantly, worried he had ruined their night. “Was this fun for you?” he asked seriously. 

“Y- yes.” Draco said. 

“Then, please, for the love of Salazar will you let me decide how much of your baggage I’m capable of dealing with.” His voice was still kind, but there was an edge of impatience. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m enjoying all of this, even this part, right here.”

Draco searched his face for signs of deception, but found nothing but sincerity. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He said, then smiling slyly. “Just tell me what you need from me to let go.”

Draco looked at him with surprise, “You mean, you still want to?”

“Want to what?” Harry gently teased, stroking Draco’s arm.

“Continue what we were doing?” Draco responded, feeling a little wary by the provocation in Harry’s voice. 

“And what were we doing?” He asked leaning in to trail kisses up and down Draco’s neck. 

“Uh-” Draco blushed, he found Harry’s lips on his skin incredibly distracting, “correct me if I’m wrong but we were rubbing against each other like horny teenagers and about to come in our pants.”

“Mm. Correct. Would you like to continue?” Harry asked, stroking his hands across Draco’s abdomen.

“I-”

“I mean,” he stopped, looking up at Draco, “would  _ you _ like to continue. To finish. To come in your pants like a horny teenager. Because, you know, I’m pretty sure I could help. I’d like to help.”

“What about you?” Draco asked, feeling stupid. Feeling exposed and on the spot. Feeling like too many eyes were on him even though there were only Harry’s. Feeling like his heart was in his throat. 

“But, what I want is for  _ you _ to enjoy this.” Harry said, encouragingly. “For you to feel good. I want to give you that.  _ That _ would be more than satisfying for me.”

Harry waited patiently while Draco thought about the offer. His crippling sense of self awareness at war with his equally overwhelming desire to go with the experience, to lose himself with Harry. Last time he was here, he fucked everything up, left Harry in the woods, and they didn’t speak for weeks. He wanted to choose a different path. Face the unknown.

He felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, preparing to jump off and struggling to maintain eye contact. Finally, he nodded at Harry, who smiled with something that looked like victory. 

“Is that a yes?”

“Y-yes.” He stuttered, stepping off the ledge. His hands were sweating again and he felt a bit clammy. This couldn’t possibly be sexy for Harry. 

Harry’s smile was like sunshine breaking through the clouds and his eyes showed something that, for a moment, Draco thought was pride. Or maybe worship. 

It was overwhelming, and Draco didn’t know if he could live up to either. 

Harry leaned in to kiss him with purpose, breathing him in, wrapping himself around Draco. 

Draco was melting back into the kiss against the soft cushions of his couch when Harry swung himself around to straddle Draco’s lap. The sudden pressure and new angle shocking a groan from Draco. 

“Tell me if you want to stop. If you don’t like something.” Harry whispered in his ear before gently biting his neck. Draco felt his skin erupt in goosebumps, spreading down his neck and to his chest. He gripped Harry’s hips hard and breathed in harshly, trying to ground himself. 

“Okay.” He agreed.

Harry huffed a pleased sound in response as he started to carefully grind his hips down onto Draco’s lap. His erection, that had faded during their brief interlude, now filled rapidly in reaction to the gaining momentum of Harry’s movements. He could feel Harry’s through their trousers and couldn’t believe he was more interested in Draco’s orgasm than his own.

Harry was kissing and biting from Draco’s mouth down his neck and shoulder and back up as his hands wandered ardently across every inch of his exposed skin. Draco’s hands remained on Harry’s hips as he slowly, slowly, slowly allowed himself to be taken further and further from his comfort zone to a place he’d never been. Never thought he’d go. 

Part of him briefly wished that Harry would just get it over with so he didn’t have to sit with the part of himself that was unbearably uncomfortable with the intimacy of their movements, of what they were doing. But, the other, truer part of himself, was grateful for every second this pleasure dragged on. Grateful for Harry’s patience. 

Harry. He moved slowly, deliberately, sensuously. Draco was starting to suspect that he was doing this so achingly slowly to push him past the point of no return. To get him so desperate that he took control of the situation to chase his own release. 

And maybe, Draco thought, it was working. 

Draco’s breathing was becoming ragged and he was unable to stop himself from panting as he tensed his stomach muscles and fidgeted, trying to seek more contact and friction. 

His hands were restless, he could no longer sit idly, as he had intended, while Harry methodically ground his hips down onto Draco’s groin. He had to move. He had to grab Harry and thrust up against him. He needed  _ more _ . 

He couldn’t take it any longer. He reached up and gripped the back of Harry’s neck to pull his mouth to his, hard. With the other he grabbed Harry’s thigh, thrusting up against him with frantic, uncontrolled movements. Harry was moaning softly, encouraging him, grounding him with firm hands. 

Draco’s skin was flushed and clammy, his fingers white with gripping Harry hard enough to bruise and his toes curled of their own accord. 

He was in a free fall. And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t  _ thinking  _ about it. 

His orgasm came suddenly, almost shockingly, forcing a nearly panicked, “Harry…” from Draco’s lips as Harry helped him ride out the uncontrolled waves of pleasure that swept over him until Draco’s hips were still. 

Harry panted with Draco and held him tight. He kissed all over his face, softly, tenderly, reassuringly. Running his hands through Draco’s hair and whispering affirmations that his brain couldn’t quite decipher. Draco’s hands were firmly wrapped around Harry, feeling their breaths evening out, and reality slowly seeping back in. He was safe, and he wasn’t running anymore.

Before Draco could begin to feel embarrassed about what they had done Harry asked, “Let me run you a shower?” Then, before Draco could articulate a response he followed up with, “And I want to stay the night. I mean- please let me stay the night? Let me run you a shower and sleep next to you. Just sleep.”

He looked so open and vulnerable in the face of Draco’s own raw vulnerability that he nodded, feeling flooded with some unnamed emotion that squeezed his heart. 

______

August 5, 2009

Draco rose early to the sound of a ministry owl causing a complete racket outside his window. Shuffling across his bedroom, just warming in the early morning light, towards the nuisance of an animal, he opened the window and groggily took the parchment. The owl didn’t wait for a response, choosing instead to fly off without a backwards glance. 

_ Draco, please meet me today in the Death Chamber at 9am - HJG _

That was all. 

Ominous.

In response to her one line of urgency, it was with exhausted defeat in the face of Hermione’s single minded determination that he dragged himself out of his flat. It’s not that he wasn’t enjoying his work with Hermione, he certainly was, he was just missing the healing arts, thinking more and more on what it would be like to have an office of his own, a practice, a place where he could work his own hours and separate days for research and days for patients. It would be the best of both worlds. 

After working with Hermione for months, he had realised he didn’t want to be a full time researcher in the way that she was. It was too tedious, too hyper focused. Which, he huffed to himself, was saying something, because, he was certainly a man who loved tedium. Hermione, brightest witch that she was, just took it to a whole new level. 

Thankfully, navigating the Ministry had been an easier experience since the trial. He received fewer sneers, fewer awkward glances, and fewer people tried to shuffle away from him. He was suddenly becoming just a normal person, ambling through the throngs of people milling about. Blissfully invisible. Beautifully nondescript. 

His shoes clacked merrily on the stone passage outside the lifts as he made his way to Hermione’s favorite haunts. The ancient receptionist greeted him and led him straight to the Death Chamber, saying, “Mrs. Granger is already there, my dear.” Of course. 

Reaching the door, the withered old woman opened it and ushered him in, though he was distracted from thanking her when he heard Granger’s voice drifting up toward the doorway. She was speaking to someone. A very familiar someone. Someone with atrocious black hair and dark skin that seemed to shimmer in the half light of the chamber. The two of them were at the base of the dais, facing the archway, clearly discussing something at length, and they hadn’t yet noticed Draco. 

Draco couldn’t hear what they were discussing, Hermione’s hands waving wildly and Harry’s arms crossed, leaning back, considering her. Draco continued towards them with a bubble of nervous anticipation. What in Salazar’s name was Harry even doing here? 

When he was close enough for his shoes to be heard on the stone steps, Hermione turned up toward him with a look of pure panic, worry creasing her face. The sudden change made Draco stop in his tracks, unsure if he should be intruding. Realising they weren’t alone, Harry turned to see Draco there, and his countenance changed with the marked raising of his eyebrows, the hint of a bemused smirk at the corner of his mouth. 

Hermione spoke quickly, voice determined, but dripping in anxiety. “I know, I know this is a bit of a surprise,” She started, not-so-subtly stepping between them as Draco finally took the final steps towards the dias, as if she was worried they would start throwing hexes at any moment, “but, I thought it was important for all of us to be on the same page with our theory on thestrals and I think Harry here, may be the missing link, Draco-”

“Hermione-” Harry tried to interrupt, a smile forming on his face. Salazar, he was handsome in his ratty jeans and leather jacket. Draco couldn’t help but remembering what those lips had done to him on Harry’s birthday.  

“And, I know you two don’t have the best history, but I thought since you managed to get along so well at the trial that maybe you could get on well enough to work-”

“Hermione-” he tried again, to no avail. 

“No Harry! Please! This research is so important,” her voice was loud and determined, “and I know this is sudden, and perhaps I should have done this differently, but-”

“Hermione-” Draco tried, wanting to cut in and calm Hermione’s poor nerves over this apparently very stressful meeting she thought she was initiating.

“I was just hoping we could all put the past behind us and work together, because I think there’s something about the two of you being masters of the Elder wand and your connection to the thestrals, and what I found in those writings from the The Republic of the Congo-”

“HERMIONE!” Harry and Draco yelled together, finally silencing her panicked justifications. 

“I’m sorry-” She tried, but Harry cut her off.

“Can you just give us a moment please, Hermione?” 

“I- what?” She looked stunned, like that was the last thing she expected to hear out of Harry’s mouth about being forced into a social interaction with his childhood nemesis. 

“Please?” He asked again. “Just give us a minute to talk. Alone.”

“You want me to leave you two  _ alone?  _ In the  _ Death Chamber?”  _ Her shrill voice was beyond worried, nearing incredulous. 

“Hermione, you are the one who thought it best to throw us together in this room without warning.” He pointed out, goading her, and when the humor did nothing to break the tension on her face, he smiled reassuringly at her. “Please, ‘Mione. We’re adults. We just have some things to talk about. Don’t you trust us?”

Draco was trying hard not to smile now. 

“I mean- well, yes. Of- of course. I trust both of you, I just-” She looked pained. Harried. Like she was regretting everything. “Just, please don’t kill each other.” she pleaded, looking between them. 

Draco snorted. “Trust me, Hermione, I am way past wanting to maim your Precious Potter. I’ll behave.” He didn’t look at Harry, but he could feel Harry’s magic respond to the provocation. Poor Hermione had no idea what she had walked into. 

“Okay. If you’re sure.” She looked suspiciously between them before ascending the stairs. 

Harry and Draco just stood there looking at one another until they heard her footsteps recede and the door close, the little triangle of light that had flowed in from the hall, suddenly gone. 

Harry waved his hand lazily and he heard the bolt lock. Draco smirked. 

“So, Potter, are we hear to hash out our differences and have a heart to heart?”

Harry smiled widely and moved towards Draco. “It appears so.”

“Well, in first year, on the train, you bought out all of my favorite sweets before the trolley got to my compartment and, I will have you know, I was furious. Enraged, really. I believe that was the start of all this animosity.” He said with a mock serious tone, one eyebrow raised in righteous indignation. 

Harry laughed loudly, throwing his head back. “Is that right?” He said, reaching out for Draco’s hand. “You’re unbelievable.”

Draco took the proffered hand and pulled Harry to him, kissing him softly. “I think I’ll forgive you, though. You more than made up for it since then.”

Harry smiled against Draco’s lips, slipping his hand under his blazer and onto his lower back, pulling Draco flush against him. 

Draco went without protest, relishing the fact that Harry’s casual, rather tatty tshirt allowed Draco’s hands to find bare skin much more easily than Harry could on Draco.

They swayed on the spot, sharing a knowing kiss that nearly erased their surrounding from Draco’s mind. When he finally pulled away from the kiss, Harry held him in place, resting his forehead on Draco’s and smiling. “I want to tell them.” He said softly, reaching for one of Draco’s hands. “I want our friends to know. Secrets, hiding things. They’re not something I want to bring forward into my new life. You though, I’d like you there.”

Draco was surprised he wanted to do this here in the Death Chamber. They could hear the whispers of the dead and gone just feet away. But, Harry didn’t seem to mind. Harry was asking him to be part of his life. To be public with his affections. 

Sure, Hermione and he got along well enough, and Ron wasn’t so bad, not anymore, but how would they feel once they found out he was dating their best friend? Would they turn on Draco? Would he lose Harry as a result? Surely Harry would choose his friends over Draco, right?

He realised he was expected to respond with some sort of answer, but fuck if he could think of one. 

“Hey,” Harry said softly, lifting his hand to touch Draco’s face and forcing him to look into those green, penetrating eyes, “Draco, it’s okay. It’s not going to change anything.”

“Isn’t it?” He couldn’t hide the apprehension and fear in his voice. “What if they hate it?”

“They’ll come around. And they don’t hate you.” He reassured, sidestepping right around Draco’s swapping of pronouns. 

“If that’s what you want.” Draco said. Why was he feeling so afraid of this? 

“It is, but what do you want?” Harry asked. 

“I just don’t want your friends to hate me when they realize we’re- you know?” He couldn’t find the right words to describe them.

“When they realize we’re what? Together? Boyfriends? Mad for each other? Partners? Fucking?” Harry teased, but the words went straight through Draco like fire. 

He huffed, feeling a little overwhelmed, too aware of Harry’s body against him, but trying to smile. “Yeah- I mean, all of those things. Except, we’re not fucking. Not quite.”

Harry smiled even bigger, “not yet” and kissed him hard, sliding his one hand to the back of Draco’s head and the other slipping down to rest just above the swell of his ass. Draco broke the kiss, “Not here you brute! We’re in the Death Chamber,” he protested feebly, smiling, “for fuck’s sake.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m making better memories. And distracting myself from all that damned whispering.” He said before trying to resume his ministrations. But before they could even get another proper kiss in, the door at the top of the stairs blasted open, startling them apart. 

Ron, in his full auror robes, red hair flying, wand drawn, had burst into the Death Chamber, dashing down the steps, ready to split up the duel Hermione was apparently convinced they’d be having. 

Harry and Draco had jumped apart at the sound, but they were still standing intimately close, their appearances rumpled and hair disheveled, Harry’s smile looking far more guilty than anything else. Ron stopped short at the sight of them, followed closely by Hermione, who was positively quivering with nerves. 

“Uhh…” Ron said, face slack, appearing at a complete loss for what to say. “‘Mione said you were trying to kill each other.”

Draco couldn't help it. This was ridiculous. Ron looked like he was about to arrest both of them, Hermione looked like she had been close to tears when she first came in, and he and Harry were both definitely sporting half masts. He started laughing. 

Harry was quick to join in. 

Soon, Harry and Draco were doubled over giggling, leaning on one another, with Hermione and Ron just staring between the two of them and one another, trying to figure out what in Circe’s name they were missing. 

“So,  you’re not trying to kill each other, then?” Ron asked, an annoyed, albeit relieved, note in his voice.

“No, Ron, we’re not trying to kill each other.” Harry wheezed, trying to right himself. “Not since sixth year, anyway. And, even then, not sure how pure my motives were.” 

Draco regained his composure first, straightening his jacket and shirt beneath it, smoothing the front of his ensemble, resisting the urge to reach over and tug Harry’s t-shirt back down to cover the pieces he had exposed. 

Hermione was now looking at them shrewdly, brow furrowed, eyes darting between them, seeing their casual touching and easy posture. Noting Harry’s guilty smile and embarrassed laughter.

“Oh my god.” She said, eyes going wide, realisation dawning. Ron was still looking very confused. And annoyed.

Harry straightened up, and grabbed Draco’s hand, holding it firm, and looking straight at his best friends. “I’m gay for Draco. I mean-” Dear lord, thought Draco, closing his eyes and sighing. Ever the poet, Harry was. 

Ron made a choking noise, and Hermione huffed a disbelieving laugh.  

“I mean, we’re together.” Harry corrected, his dark cheeks turning red. Draco squeezed his hand.

“Uhh…” Ron said, rather stupidly. “What?”

“Draco is who I’ve been seeing. The one you haven’t shut up about for weeks. The one I kept dodging questions about.” He said sheepishly. “And, he was the one who saved me last year when St. Mungo’s discharged me. And, he helped me through, well everything. He was who I was with all last year. In the forest. The forbidden forest. He brought me with him to his research post. We lived together for the year.” 

Ron and Hermione silently gaped between Harry and Draco, and he felt himself growing uncomfortable under their gaze. He was starting to sweat and his heart was beating too fast.

Harry whistled and waved his hand in front of their faces, “Be happy for me or be angry at me, but don’t just stand there will you? It’s unnerving. More so than the voices of the dead up there.”

“Oh Harry, why didn’t you just tell us?” Hermione said, breaking from her glazed stupor. “This is wonderful!” She rushed forward. “I mean, it was the literal last thing I expected to happen in a million fucking years, but- well, you seem so much happier. Merlin, I’m an idiot! Oh Godric, your hat, and … oh and Salazar, the wiggentree! And the THESTRALS. HARRY. DRACO.” 

She stared between the both of them, mouth agape. “Oh, I’m a fool. An absolute fool. It seems so obvious, now. You idiots! We could be so much further with this research had I known! Oh my gods, I’ve been panicking about this for weeks...” She threw her arms around both Harry and Draco, surprising him with her strength. He found he didn’t mind.

But, over her shoulder and around errant tendrils of curly hair, Draco was watching Ron closely. He was most worried about his reaction, and felt more than a little intimidated by his very official appearance, still in his fighting stance, even if his wand arm dangled uselessly at his side, face twisted in confusion.

“You’re gay for Malfoy?” He asked weakly. Hermione moved away from hugging them to glare at Ron.

“Uh- yeah.” Harry responded with a wary smirk, with conviction. “Very, in fact.”

“Well, then.” He said, straightening up, coming back to himself. “I’ll have to tell McMillian he’s got no chance.”

Harry laughed incredulously. 

“Oh, the Hufflepuff never had a chance Weasley.” Draco said stiffly, readjusting his dress shirt again, still full of nerves but a smile ghosting across his face. Hermione and Harry snorted a laugh.

After an awkward pause, Ron moved forward and extended his hand to Draco. “Thanks for watching out for him. For saving him, when we couldn’t.”

Draco just stared at it for a moment, feeling completely wrong footed. “Uh- It was my pleasure. Though, if you must know, I gave him the choice, and he was the one who eventually chose to save himself.” He reached for Ron’s hand. 

Harry snorted a laugh at the flustered look on Ron’s face, who was shaking Draco’s hand, his mouth still not quite closed. 

“Oh, this is wonderful, Draco you can come to dinner at our place and we can do research from there! And oh, we can go-” Hermione was in full blown excitement planning, and Harry had to head her off  before Ron’s head exploded with too many new things. 

“Hermione, thanks, but we’re taking things slow. Let’s give Ron maybe another 24 hours to get used to this before we start planning double dates.” Harry cut in. 

“Oh- Oh, right, yes. Well, of course.” Hermione stumbled over her words, clearly struggling to keep herself in check. 

“Not to change the subject mate, but where the hell is all that whispering coming from?” Ron said with a jerk of his head as if he were being irritated by fly. 

“Uh-” Harry started, unsure what to say.

“You’ve been in here before, but, can you actually hear something now?” Hermione reminded him. 

“Not since 5th year, and I don’t remember this much noise.” He said, staring at the tattered veil. 

“What can you hear?” Hermione asked clinical interest warring with genuine concern across her face. “Draco heard Severus the first time he came here. Harry hasn’t heard anything specific yet...”

“I’m- I’m not sure… It’s just- whispering, isn’t it? I can’t really be- Do you lot hear that?” 

“Yes.” Harry and Draco chimed in unison, but Draco couldn’t place the voice he was hearing, rising above the chattering din. Hermione was still watching Ron closely. 

“Well, since we’re all here,” she started, “why don’t we go over what I was sent from the Magical Foreign Liaison Office  together.”

Ron seemed to shake himself and he tore his gaze away from the archway to look at his wife. “I should get back to work, since you don’t need me here to keep these two apart.” He deflected, shooting a rueful smirk at Harry, who blushed a deep purple. Draco blushed in sympathy and grinned, letting the tension of the previous moment fade away.

“If you’re sure.” Hermione said carefully, still watching her husband.

Ron looked at her thoughtfully, and could tell she was a bit worried about how the archway had affected him. Draco felt like he was intruding on something. “I’ll stay for a bit- if you want- I just thought I heard… Never mind, tell me about the books you got ‘Mione.”

She looked relieved and smiled at him, marching towards one of the nearest stone benches to dig in her bag. “Come, sit.” she beckoned to the rest of them. 

When they had all arranged themselves around her and her bag of books, she started to explain. “Honestly, I don’t really know where to begin other than by saying we don’t know anything.” Her right arm had disappeared entirely into her bag as she felt around for what she needed.

“Well, that’s… affirming.” Draco said dryly, watching her trying to pull out something heavy from the depths of her bag. 

“No, really,” Hermione huffed in disbelief, “not only did it take me the last few months to locate the right people to ask, but I had to do some right groveling to convince the foreign liaison offices in dozens of countries at countless schools to send me copies of their history and research on thestrals. And, what I found in these books are… more questions.” She finally managed to extricate one massive book and went back for more.

“How so?” Harry asked, his eyebrows drawn together in thought.

Hermione took a deep breath. “You know, I always thought our education on magical theories and history was a bit… lacking. Understanding the depth of the essence of magic, even when I started my training here, I had so much to learn before I could begin actually working as an unspeakable. But, when I looked through these books from schools from all over the world… I’ve never felt more out of my depth.” She looked shocked by the fact that she met concepts in books that she couldn’t fully grasp. 

None of them knew what to say to that. One by one she pulled out large volume after large volume. 

“Honestly, ‘Mione,” Ron said, sounding bewildered, “but if this is stuff you can’t figure out, how can anyone?”

“But, others  _ have _ figured it out Ron, that’s what I’m trying to say.” She sounded awed and frustrated in equal measure. “These books have the answers we need, but honestly, I feel like I could spend the next three decades just trying to understand the vocabulary and concepts they’re using to explain the information.”

“Where did you find them?” Draco asked, feeling elated at the idea that the pages at their feet held answers for them, but dismayed that they might not be able to understand their contents.

“Well,” she said, leaning over the five monstrously thick books that she had pulled from the capacious depths of her leather satchel, “I first contacted Uagadou, as its the only school listed in our foreign liaison office for Africa. But, when I asked them for information on thestral history and lore they said that it was such a diverse topic and their resources weren’t inclusive enough to speak for the entire continent’s worth of local magical lore, so they sent me the names of other schools in Africa.”

“There are other schools?” Ron looked as startled as Draco felt by the news. They had only ever been told about the one.

“I was surprised, too.” Hermione conceded. “But, honestly, it makes sense doesn’t it? Africa is a huge continent encompassing hundreds, thousands, of diverse groups, cultures, languages, territories… to expect that large of a land mass to be accommodated by one school is unreasonable. Uagadou is the only school with a relationship with the European Ministries. The others have only begrudging contact, most have outright distrust. 

When I contacted the Uroyi Chikoro in Great Zimbabwe, all they sent back as a reply was a beaded bracelet, which was, I kid you not, charmed to repel witchcraft from outsiders.” She looked exasperated. “Which is unfortunate, because according to the other schools they hold a huge amount of knowledge about thestrals.”

She laid her books out on the bench and began speaking again.

“These two were from Nganga ya Zamba school in Toumbi, Republic of Congo - written in an ancient form of Lingala... The language key they sent is cryptic at best.” These two books had a wooden cover and binding, carved in intricate patterns showing the flora and fauna of its origin, with thestrals hidden amongst the leaves. They reminded Draco distinctly of Harry’s front door at Grimmauld Place. 

“Then this one is from a school in Diepwalle, South Africa in a language called Khoekhoe, or maybe Griqua, I don’t know the difference, honestly.” She smoothed her hand over the rough greyish black leather cover, embossed with outline of a light and silvery herb, something like sage, perhaps. A dull, thick metal clasp held it shut. “It came with a note that said,” she produced a tattered bit of thick parchment from inside its cover and passed it to Draco, who saw the incomprehensible arrangement of letters and exclamations that read  _!Gâi!gâb _ . 

“It took me a month to figure out it meant  _ good luck _ , and, somehow, I don’t think they intended it as an encouragement. It’s all we have to go on for the translation.” She huffed in bewilderment. “Pages disappear and reappear seemingly at random from the book, like it’s taunting me. Occasionally, I’ll open it just to find a praying mantis running across the pages.” 

Harry had reached down and picked up the book she indicated, a grin growing ever wider on his face. “Hermione, don’t bother with this one. The magic - I can feel it - it’s mischievous and only interested in a laugh. The mantis, it’s his idea. They didn’t send you something to help, they just wanted you to waste your time a bit.” He was grinning still as he lay the book back down, Hermione looking stone faced, resigned, exasperated.

Draco shook his head and snorted. He had never given much thought to the diversity of languages, cultures, or even magical theory that could be present in the amorphous idea that was Africa in his mind, but he was beginning to appreciate just how little he knew. 

“So, are all of these books from Africa?” Ron asked, his freckled brow wrinkled.

“No.” she looked a little overwhelmed. “They said if I wanted to see the rest I would have to physically go there and investigate. This one is from China,” She indicated to the gold embossed book, then to the light blue fabric bound tome, “and this, Japan. These are the two I’ve at least been able to translate to some extent.” 

“Were you able to locate others, from other places in the world?” asked Harry, his interest clearly piqued, running his hands over different works, pausing over the blue fabric, a crane flying across the cover. His smile had disappeared, his face now almost pained. Draco had noticed he avoided touching the two from Congo. 

“Oh, yes.” Hermione said. “I’m still waiting to hear back from the schools in South America, North America, and northern Russia. As it turns out, there are traditional magical schools all over that we didn’t know about. We were only taught about the ones that have official European ministry connections. Its infuriating, really, how the European magical communities have turned a blind eye to the vast knowledge of these other systems of magical learning. There is so much we don’t know.”

“So, what next? Where do we go from here?” Harry asked. 

“The only conclusion I’ve been able to draw so far, aside from how utterly inept we as British people are, is that in every single resource thus far old-growth forests seem to be a unifying theme. They appear to be important to thestrals and the lore around them.”

“Should we be researching forest magic?” Draco wondered out loud. 

“Perhaps.” Hermione shrugged. “All I know is that this research isn’t going to be concluded any time in the near future. This is work of a lifetime. Many lifetimes, in fact. And, I’m not even sure we’ll ever be invited to know much of it - this is tradition and culture protected by more than just hexes, it’s protected by people who have been exploited and who have good reason to distrust those who want access to their secrets. Even at just the beginning of this quest for resources, I think I am even more intent on focusing on our forest, on our herds. I think this is something we have to work to uncover, and once we have, then, perhaps, we will be allowed to know more.”

Draco thought for a moment about how thestrals were a bit like that anyways. How one could not see them unless they’ve come to terms with death and understood empathy. How they protect their herds and their secrets by making people work on themselves to get near them. 

“Then, we’ll study our own magical forest and work on our relationships with schools and ministries abroad.” Draco concluded. “In the meantime, I’d like to work on my potions theories and help you translate these.” He said, picking up the wood carved book, feeling something distinct about them.

“Let’s get to it then.” Hermione stood with determination, that detailed oriented fervour glinting in her eyes.

Ron escorted them all back to Hermione’s office before taking his leave, saying that Robards was going to flay him alive if he didn’t finish his paperwork for his newest case, dipping to kiss her cheek quickly and waving a brief but meaningful goodbye to both Harry and Draco. 

The three of them settled down around her desk and began passing around the books, making lists of deadlines and to-do’s, splitting up tasks. When the leather-bound edition from South Africa landed in Harry’s hands again, he held it and smiled, flicking through the pages, looking at it fondly, admiringly. Draco felt his own grin forming as he watched Harry exploring the pages, himself now also able to feel the trickster, the laughing deception the Diepwalle school had sent them. There was no doubt they’d be facing new and unknown magic in their research from here on out.


	14. Between Rays of Sunlight

##  Between Rays of Sunlight

August 3, 2009 

Harry blew the dust away from his work table just as the sun creeped in through the high windows to the East, strips of golden light warming floorboards, then Harry’s back, hunched over Colin’s finished monument. 

He had been pleased with the way the slab of cherry had soaked up magic, had called to it, played with it. It married perfectly with Colin’s bubbly personality and the flitting, flighty, excitable nature of the hummingbird he had carved into the supple wood. It was his first time carving into wood rather than sculpting it, but he had enjoyed it immensely, nonetheless. The feeling of the grain beneath his fingers, coming to life, almost trembling with the joyful, tinkling laugh that Dennis had described, the wood rising up to greet him in relief. He had used a mixture of muggle carving technique and sanding and spellwork to etch the design, not wanting to overwhelm the sense of Colin with his own signature. 

Harry had charmed the hummingbird to flit around the slab of cherry, and for anyone who walked near to feel the surge of curiosity that so defined Colin, that defined his magic. For several seconds, they’d feel immense wonder, the desire to know, to ask, to investigate the world around them. They’d feel the incredible possibility of discovering magic for the first time, for opening the door to a world where anything could be wondrous and delightful. A breath of firsts, a charming sense of undeniable possibility, of hope, bright and bursting. 

Harry stepped back from the table and admired the plaque - cherry wood, bright and red and vibrant, the hummingbird dancing along the edge of plain letters. 

COLIN CREEVEY

Died a Hero in the Battle of Hogwarts

May 2, 1998

Harry felt a weight pull down from his shoulders, which were sore with working the wood, with holding and casting and channeling the magic of the piece. He wanted it to last. He was sure it would. 

Later, he would show Dennis, along with the tight scroll of parchment that lay across the table, Minerva McGonagall’s elegant script just visible. It was her blessing to come and secure the plaque at Hogwarts, an invitation to come whenever they so choose. 

Harry vanished the wood dust from the floor and the pile of shavings from the table. He was tired, but a fulfilled tired. A tired that came from a place of meaning, a place of pouring himself into something. Of creating and reshaping the realm of grief. Of reclaiming. 

He heard the soft and rhythmic, echoing steps of his thestral in one of the halls upstairs, moving from one silent room of the dark house to another, perhaps avoiding the molten sunlight that was warming the rooms, one by one. Harry huffed an exhausted laugh to himself, allowing his mind to wander briefly to the meeting he had had in the DoM, where they had unearthed the thin threads of truth - that thestrals held sway over the shadow between life and death, and that shadow was cultivated, nurtured, in the heart of old forests. 

And, sometimes, the thestrals chose magical folk to help them, guardians that they are. 

Harry shook his head and pushed his mess of hair up out of his face, blowing air out of puffed up and reddened cheeks. He reached over and rubbed his little growing encourage mint, the cloud dark and thick with impending summer rain. The smell washed over him, scouring the room in it’s own gentle way, filling Harry’s mind with images of Draco, soft and gentle and sure against him. 

Of the night they had spent together. The night that Harry had stretched out in Draco’s too-small bed, enamoured by the soft ghosts of Draco’s sleep-even breaths across his bare chest, their feet tangled together in soft cotton sheets. Of how he had passed half the star strewn night laying awake, struggling not to burst with happiness, his hands draped across scars. Scars he had once shied away from, had concentrated on not staring at, but now he let his hands re-acquaint themselves with the wounds that had struggled so valiantly to heal, that had knitted together against all odds. And he let his touch honor that, to be a balm, soft and gentle and unafraid of all of that pain. 

Harry stayed up that night reliving the evening, perfect and decadent as it was. Thoughts of Draco’s perfectly crafted dinner, and the soft smiles and delicate repartee. Of their neediness for each other, wrapped up in their stubbornness. Of their tentative fears and moments of bravery, of vulnerability. Of communicating. 

And then, of watching Draco come apart. Of the softness of his features and the stuttering grasps of his hands, desperately seeking, pulling, drawing Harry to him. Of the way he had melted into him when he finally let go. The way he had panted, eyes closed but unguarded and open with Harry, and the way Harry could not resist but kiss the sheen across his skin, the gentle laugh on his lips, bemused in the moments after pleasure. 

He couldn’t think about that just now. No, now was time for a quick shower and shave, then a meeting, and he’d be off with Dennis to Hogwarts. Colin, and, Dennis too, shouldn’t be waiting a day longer than they had to. And there would be time for thoughts of Draco. Whole nights, stretching on into the future, for Harry to take him apart, piece by piece. 

_____________

Dennis was nearly running up the gravel path from the gated entrance to Hogwarts, his camera bag slung dutifully over one shoulder, but his face sporting a ginormous grin, one he kept flashing Harry as he shouted for him to hurry up. Harry had given him a glimpse of his work before they started the trek up to the castle, and Dennis had burst into tears, full of excitement, seemingly powered by Colin himself and had immediately dashed up the path, yelling for Harry to keep up. 

Harry had never seen him so full of life, so light and full of joy. Harry’s own dragon-skin bag was carrying the magicked slab of wood, the hide keeping the delicate spellwork safe and concealed at his side. 

He laughed as he watched Colin hustle up the steep grounds and to the front entrance, delighted to see the whomping willow, verdant and green, and the lazy tentacles of the giant squid splashing about the surface of the lake. 

After the war, Hogwarts had been painstakingly rebuilt, and every last detail of the ancient castle had been recalled, replaced, reclaimed, held fast with magic that would carry through the centuries, cemented and re-guarded with stone. Harry hadn’t been there for it, he’d gone directly into Auror training. 

His new sensitivity to the magic around him made the experience of walking into the grounds and up to the towering castle all the more intimidating, threads and strands of spellwork running through him, calling to him, sighing out memories of days, of people - of the moments of magic that had fortified the castle, knit it together, polished each stone and tarnished each metal. 

He could feel Dumbledore here, and there was Snape, moments hanging on the edges of his thoughts as they crossed through the ancient front doors and into the entrance hall, echoes of all Harry’s memories flooding the otherwise empty foyer, all of his years pooling and swarming - laughter and tears and fear and triumph, all molten together as one. 

“Ah, there you are Potter.” 

The familiar sharp Scottish accent and sweeping green robes brought such joy to Harry, he couldn’t help but grin, sidestepping Minerva McGonagall’s outstretched hand and pulling her into a hug, completely foregoing all notions of decorum, ignoring the “oh my goodness” that followed, for he was too full of love for the woman who had raised him, who had shaped the wizard he had become. She smelled of her old mahogany desk full of dried sprigs of lavender and camphor cream and Harry felt instantly at ease.

“Professor McGonagall.” Harry said, finally relinquishing her to dust off her robes and look disapprovingly down at him from her perfectly austere nose and wire spectacles. Memories of first and second year, particularly, held sway, and he imagined all those moments he cowered at the thought of expulsion by her decree. 

“Yes, Potter, well, hello. I’m glad to see you seem to be in good health. You gave so many of us quite the scare with your long absence. Wherever you were, you didn’t seem to learn any more manners than you knew in your first year, so it couldn’t have been too bad. And hello as well, Dennis. You’re looking well, too.” She had stepped around Harry to shake Dennis’s outstretched hand.

She was trying to be serious, but Harry could see the fractional pull of a smile on her cheeks and her magic, stern and sharp and militaristic fluttered for a moment, full of happiness. She had been worried. Maybe about the both of them. 

“Whatever it was, it did me good. And, I’m glad to be back at the castle, it still feels like coming home, even after all these years, and all the memories of the war, the battle. It feels loved and tended to again, full of promise.” Harry was looking around the high arching walls, the portraits, the staircases, every tiny detail that was seeping with the history of the place, far more ancient than the war, than Voldemort, even. 

“I can see that. You said you were coming to put up a monument for Colin?” She regarded the two of them, and Harry caught just the slightest waver in her voice. 

“Yes. Just a plaque commemorating him, with a bit of magic I worked in.” Harry answered, motioning to the dragonhide case he was carrying, trying to downplay the month he had spent crafting, making the cherry wood vibrant and full and the effect beautifully instantaneous, though fleeting. For a solid two weeks the magic had been too strong, the radius of his casting far too wide, and he had been sure that he could hear his neighbours asking a million questions about the stars, the moons, the galaxy above them. Colin had really taught him patience, temperance, control. He had spent late nights stewing in the irony. 

“May I see it? I was so happy to hear of your plan to do something for Colin, he was one of my favorite students, and I already have such a fondness for those in my house.” She lifted her right hand and lay it across her heart as she spoke, her words heavy with truth. “I was thinking, after we did the renovation, that what we really needed was to commemorate what happened, not just smooth it over and return the castle to as it was. The battle happened here, we lost lives here, people we loved. I had wanted so badly to hold on to that and make it part of the history of this place, but by the end of the reconstruction, we were all so tired, and in the midst of our own grief, it just never happened.” 

As she was speaking, Harry had opened his case and pulled out the slab of wood to show her, letting the hummingbird wake up and take flight, the magic of Colin spilling into the place between them. 

There was an audible gasp, a burst of laughter, delightful and carefree, that slowly folded into the choked and gasping sobs of shock, of grief. Of relief. 

Minerva McGonagall, the woman who had remained a pillar of strength and unrelenting stamina in the decades she had ruled over her pride of lions, in the decade since she herself had become headmistress, had her hand now clutching the collar of the robes that lay across her heart, and was gripping Harry’s shoulder with the other, staring at enchanted object, her eyes wide.

“Colin…” She managed, though only just. Her voice was weak and Harry could watch the memories of the young Gryffindor pulling at every string of her heart, for she had loved him, as she loved all of them, like a mother. Fierce and proud. 

When she straightened up and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief pulled from the depths of her forest robes, she was already moving to pull Dennis into a hug. Handshakes and formalities forgotten. Harry could see her talking softly over Dennis’s shoulder and into his ear, Dennis nodding and his own tears leaking down his reddened cheeks. Eventually, they pulled apart, and she turned to Harry. 

“Potter…” She had regained that tone, the one that he was sure had been used to scold his father, all those years ago. That had been the only thing that kept Sirius toeing the line. That had told Remus he was welcome, but not to expect to get away with the shenanigans of his friends, because of her houselings she expected order. “That. That is more than just a bit of magic.” She was staring at him, and he could sense she was appraising him. Full of questions she wanted to ask. 

“That was Colin.” She finished, her words final. 

“Yes.” Harry was smiling. He could feel his magic, a gentle heat, radiating up from the stones beneath them, as if they had spent the afternoon sun warmed. 

“How?” Minerva McGonagall was so rarely stumped, so rarely confronted with things she did not understand, with magic she was unfamiliar with. “How did you do this?” 

“I’m not sure, honestly. Things have changed for me, recently. My magic has changed.” Harry smiled at her, shrugging. 

“Yes. Indeed.” She was still looking at him. “You remind me of Albus, Harry.” 

Harry nodded to her, understanding what she meant. It wasn’t praise, it was acknowledgement. He had touched upon the ethereal realms of magic that did not fit in textbooks. Old magic. Magic full of questions and muddied with the complexity of time and humanity, of love and death. Magic that Dumbledore had been close to. 

“I know where you should put this brilliant homage to my student, and a hero of Hogwarts.” She was bustling along the nearest staircase before Harry had realised what she said. “Come along.” 

He and Dennis looked at each other quickly before hurrying along behind her. It wasn’t long before Harry realised where they were going. She had stopped just outside her classroom. Where she had been teaching transfiguration for as long as living memory. Where she had guided young minds to seek out magic, to remain curious, to learn and grow and thrive. 

“Just here will do.” She indicated the little bare strip of wall outside of the classroom door, where students would gather, awaiting entrance to Professor McGonagall’s realm. 

“A permanent sticking charm will do, and I think all three of us shall cast at once, to ensure that this place will be forever held by this magic. By Colin, and his memory. And I will ensure to tell my first years every year from now on the story of the battle and his bravery.” 

Harry levitated the plaque, Professor McGonagall not mentioning his lack of a wand, though an eyebrow remained raised, and fixed it against the wall, using his hands to guide the freshly polished cherry wood to its new home. On the count of three, they all cast to affix the wood to the stone, and Harry stood back, marveling how this bit of Hogwarts had been transformed, had changed. 

They stood silently a moment, all three of their eyes bright and thoughts full of the boy who had snuck back to the castle, who had given his life to protect a world that had forced him out. A world that had told him he wasn’t worthy. A place that had buried him without the recognition he deserved, who had let his memory go untended. 

Not anymore. 

Dennis snapped a photo of Professor McGonagall and the monument to Colin. Harry knew he’d spend the next few days crafting a beautiful obituary. A memorial of his own making. It was long overdue, but he could already see how this simple act was unlayering the guilt and the heaviness of grief from Dennis. It was a way to move on, to leave the pain, to leave the fear of forgetting. 

They walked down to the edge of the grounds by the gates to Hogsmeade and apparated together to a meeting. 

__________________

August 10, 2009

“In the months to come, there will be some significant changes.” 

Luna spoke softly but clearly, her wide eyes seeking out each attendee in turn, her silvery hair falling in sheets around her shoulders, pushed back from her face by purple rimmed spectacles that clashed horribly with her red armchair by the fire. 

There were murmurs, flickers of unease. 

“My home will, most unfortunately, no longer be available to us for meetings in a months time.” Luna was smiling, but there was a palpable indrawing of breath from attendees. “Come September, we’ll be making alternate arrangements for everyone. While we will ensure everyone has a new place of support, it may not be all together. I have quite a feeling that the next few weeks may be the last times we gather, all of us, together.” 

Harry felt the air shimmer with the tension. The fear. Luna had held them all, so softly and carefully. Had brought them back from death, had guarded them, had kept them safe and nurtured. Luna had made a place where they were welcome, they and their demons. And no one shied from the darkness. 

“Change is difficult. Change is often, however, necessary. This is a lesson that I know addicts who are sober are well acquainted with, though I also know that sobriety itself hangs on stability. On routine. On not changing the things that are working well. I know this, and yet, here I am, asking you all to manage this upheaval.”

Harry had at least known this discussion was coming. He, of all the attendees, looked the least worried. Greg, who had also known, looked the most. His collar was sticking up at an odd angle and so was his short blonde hair. 

“I hope we can move through this time, meeting new challenges, problem solving together and supporting one another in our efforts to maintain sobriety and cultivate the life that supports that.”

Harry looked up from his chair and caught Hestia’s gaze. She sat against her velveteen settee with her legs crossed, an elbow on one knee, her hand supporting her chin. A wisteria vine, coiled in purple cones of petals, carefree and buoyant, contrasted her stoic visage. Harry sensed the deep rolling thunderstorms of summer, the charge of the air before the crackling rain, the smell of the impending showers. He could almost see the cool wind at the head of the storm ripple around the hem of her long white summer dress. Harry let his magic reach out to her across the space between them, a reminder that they were safe, that they would weather this storm together, warm and sheltered. 

The discussion that followed Luna’s announcement floated around between members voicing their fears, others piping up and offering support. The moments of quiet that stretched between the lilting conversation was peppered with soft snuffling and Sylvia valiantly blowing her nose, having sequestered the box of tissues on her lap early in the hour.

Harry was sitting cross legged in his yellow armchair, and he reached over to rub Sylvia’s back softly as she blew her nose for the fiftieth time, her silver bangles jangling on her wrists. He would miss her most, he thought to himself. 

“I’m stronger for having known you all.” Harry found himself saying, without thinking much about it. It was just true. The months amongst his nine fellows had been a refuge of honesty and kindness that had healed him in ways that isolation in the forest would never have. “And I will take that strength with me. I hope I have given you something in return.” 

Sylvia broke into tears again, leaning over to hug Harry. Felix nodded at him from across the room. “You’ve given us acceptance. Shown us care and understanding. Helped us hold together a place to heal. You’ve given us the only things we ever really needed, things we didn’t have outside of this room.” He reached up and held Luna’s hand softly in his, his voice breaking as he finished, looking down at his worn sneakers. “Not only will I carry that with me, but it has built me. Fortified me. It is part of me.” 

Luna held his hand and let herself cry, and it was a long time before anyone spoke again. 

____________

That night, Harry lay awake in Ron and Hermione’s guest bedroom, a heavy book open across his chest as he squinted to read the miniscule print, even with his glasses on. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, sticking a bit of scrap parchment between the pages, having just finished up a section on generalised anxiety disorder, and closing the text with a dull thud. He had made it 100 pages in before he was just too tired to continue on, but that should be enough for now. Tomorrow would be all the mood disorders and PTSD. The chapter on addictions he was leaving for another night. One he felt less exhausted, less frayed at the edges, torn at the seams. 

Harry lay back with his hands behind his head and stared up at the painted slats of the ceiling. 

Luna was due in December. They didn’t have much time to plan and prepare before she was on maternity leave. Luna had asked Hestia to run the meetings in her place - a wise decision, Harry had thought. Hestia had been sober for the longest and had the best handle on her recovery, on top of being a well of empathy and compassion, a light in the dark of a storm. She would take the role on beautifully. 

Greg had pledged his help and support of Harry’s plan nearly instantly. He was so eager to be doing something, it pained Harry to watch him twisting a bit of twine between his fingers, chancing glances over at Luna as she had leaned her head back and laughed, beautiful and carefree and radiant as she had thanked him.

Little Dipper clattered onto the windowsill and hooted, ears swivelling around his dark shadow as he bobbed his head up and down, eyes wide and staring directly at Harry. 

Harry laughed at the ridiculous little owl, who continued to wobble and bob, hooting loudly. 

“You want me to write him, don’t you? Getting tired of how little errands you get to run over to your favorite treat-giver?” 

Dipper hopped from the windowsill over to the bedpost, scrabbling a bit to regain his balance, wings wide but silent. 

Harry grinned and relented, summoning a roll of parchment and self inking quill from the table across the room picking up his textbook to use as a hard surface against which to write. 

He had been waiting for Draco to write to him. Waiting for him to relent and demand they meet. Waiting for flirtatious letters and subtle hints that would leave Harry hard and palming himself through layers of clothing he’d be desperate to shed. 

But the letters hadn’t come. He had begun to wonder if he’d pushed Draco too far, if his fear of intimacy was catching up with him, if he’d taken him apart but failed to lace him back together. If Draco was stewing in the embarrassment, flailing in the openness, the uncontained unknown. Harry chewed the end of the quill, staring at the blank parchment, a furrow in his brow. 

Or, perhaps, he had just been busy at work? Or, even worse yet, waiting for Harry to write him? 

Eventually, he put quill to page. 

 

_ Draco, _

_ Meet me tomorrow at Grimmauld Place. Early, if you can. _

_ \- Harry  _

 

He spent several long minutes sketching a scene that had been replaying over and over in his mind for the past few days. A view. A memory. 

The sky, full of swooping and diving thestrals, lazily gliding along strong winds and updrafts that carried them far across the forest, Harry laying back against the sun warmed stone of the mountaintop, high up above the carpet of green stretching out across the undulating terrain to the South. 

After rolling up the parchment and letting Dipper carry off his wistful invitation, Harry fell asleep thinking of the sounds of the forest, of wings rustling beneath the trees. 

___________________

Harry had his head leaned down on Draco’s shoulder, licking and kissing at his collar bone between moans. He could barely stand, pressed up against his workbench, his hand shaking as he pulled away the layers between them. He could hear himself whispering Draco against his flesh, compelled to, as if a compulsion to worship the man before him. As if his name was a prayer. A grace. Simple and absolving. 

The man who had been waiting for him. 

Harry had woken up late, showered and foregone his morning run, eager to get started on ensuring Grimmauld Place was devoid of any darkness that might prevent them from using it as a space to hold meetings, ensuring it was safe. That it could provide a refuge, as Luna’s had. 

On the stoop, Harry had greeted the adder, marveling at the carved thestrals, dripping in anointed gold, soaring above the forest that marked the old ironwood door. 

“ _ He’s been waiting for you, parselmouth. He and the death-beasts. _ ” The little snake had huffed, coiling himself around the old knocker, flipping his forked tongue in Harry’s direction. 

“ _ Who? _ ” Harry had stopped, halfway to pushing open the door himself. 

“ _ The half master, of course. _ ” 

Harry’s heart had been pounding in his chest, a smile quick to pull at the corners of his mouth. He pushed the door open into the entryway, already lit and warm with the midsummer morning. 

He had let his magic pull him up the stairs, to his workroom, let it guide him along, keening and calling for Draco without him having to break the silence of the house. 

When he rounded the doorway, he had felt his heart flutter in his chest and his breath catch in his throat. 

Draco was standing with his face tilted up to the large, open windows, basking in the morning rays of sun, his white button down shirt untucked over smart grey trousers, his sleeves rolled up, his outline illuminated as if ringed in fire, his sharp features, ignited. It was arresting. Ethereal. 

Harry had nearly stumbled, shocked at how utterly beautiful he was. How powerful he looked, drenched in sunlight, how breathtaking. 

“It’s been ten days, Potter.” Draco had spoken without turning around, without even opening his eyes. 

“Back to Potter, is it? I was trying to be the gentleman, Draco. I was waiting for you.” Harry couldn’t help but smile, Draco’s pretend icy fury to cover up what was an obvious insecurity was too much. He stepped further into the room, his hands outstretched, a silent apology. 

Draco had opened his eyes and turned to give Harry a hard look, his eyes a steely blue. Cold and deep. 

“Draco.” Harry couldn’t keep the fondness and the smile out of his voice. He’d missed him. He’d missed the snark and the facade and the haughty aire, the schoolboy side of Draco he hardly ever saw anymore. “I’m glad you came.” Harry didn’t miss the double entendre, and half of a laugh crossed his lips, still slanted in a crooked smile. 

Draco had crossed the space between them in three long strides, grabbing a fistfull of Harry’s shirt and pulling him for a searing kiss, desperate and unrefined. Hungry, starving, even. 

And Harry had enfolded Draco into his arms, pulled their hips flush together, returning the kiss with a groan, feeling himself sink into the embrace, into the fit of their hips sliding together, so reminiscent of the last time they allowed themselves to be so close. 

Harry’s groan had turned to a whimper as Draco nipped at his lower lip and pressed into him, Harry now acutely aware of the hardness against his own stiffening cock. 

“You missed me.” Harry had said softly, sweeping Draco’s hair back from his face in a moment of respite, planting soft and lingering kisses along his jaw and down his neck, reveling in the thrum of Draco’s heart and the way he tilted his head back and sighed as Harry kissed his way down. 

Draco’s hand, still holding a fist-full of his shirt, slowly relaxed, and Draco had let it slide down Harry’s stomach, stepping back slightly and looking him up and down, his hair askew, his lips full and eyes bright, still full of hunger. 

He had pulled Harry around and pushed him up against the workbench, stepping into the space between Harry’s feet, pushing his thighs apart just slightly. Harry’s smile had disappeared, and his breath had stuttered in his throat. 

Draco leaned in and kissed him again, this time softer and more careful, both of their breathing now shallow, as if afraid of what happens next, afraid to ask for more, afraid to be the one to voice how much they want it. How much they need it. 

“Can I touch you?” Draco’s eyes met Harry’s and he swallowed hard. 

“Please.” Harry tried hard to keep how broken he felt away from his answer, but the word cracked all the same as it left his throat.  

And all of it had brought them to this moment, with Harry murmuring against Draco’s skin, unable to keep himself from mouthing his name into his flesh, his eyes closed and his breath ragged, his hips canting and rocking, his hands gripping the table behind him, nails marking the wood as he sucked in a breath. 

Draco still stood between his legs, but he had pulled off Harry’s ratty t-shirt and undone his black jeans, pulling away all of the layers of clothing to reveal Harry’s thick cock, already flushed and seeping. 

Draco was running his thumb across the slit, now slick with precome and the oil Draco had wordlessly conjured into his hand, and had let drip down Harry’s shaft and down his balls. He was stroking his cock slowly, deliberately, watching each slide of his hand down to the base and up again around the head, Draco’s mouth open and his breath ragged, reveling in each desperate, keening sound Harry made, each plead of his name, each time his cock twitched beneath his hand and Harry hissed and shuddered against him. He watched each moment, consumed it, as though starved, as if Harry’s surrender is what fed him. 

Draco brought his other hand up to rub his palm against Harry’s balls, his hand curling to rub and knead against the slip of skin just behind them. Harry panted and groaned against Draco and his brow furrowed, his eyes still closed, pushing himself back up on his work table and drawing one leg up beside him, leaning back and opening himself to Draco. Harry had long since stopped thinking about what he was doing or saying, what he wanted, he was drowning in every painfully pleasurable slide of Draco’s hand along his cock, of the gentle nudge against his prostate through his perineum, of the way Draco’s hands brought him to the edge and seemed to hold him there indefinitely, his entire body thrumming with each sensation, each wave of pleasure. 

Harry leaned his head back, his stomach contracting each time Draco pulled his hand around the head of his cock, soft ‘Nnugh’s escaping his lips as he panted. Harry needed to come, he needed the release, the relentless pleasure was drowning him in wave after wave, his hips rolling and twitching, his body begging for release. Draco’s hand had started stroking him faster, more earnestly, and Harry could feel himself tensing, feel his orgasm pooling, drawing him in, relentless and devouring. 

“Come for me, Harry.” Draco’s voice reached through the haze, through the onslaught of sensation, and Harry opened his eyes in time to catch Draco’s, his blue eyes sharp and voracious and his cheeks pink and his lips just parted and wet and Harry let all of it take him, drown him, devour him.  

He let his head fall back as he moaned Draco’s name one last time, come spilling from his cock across his stomach and Draco’s hand, still wrapped around him, dragging each shuddering gasp of pleasure from him. 


	15. Death Herders

##  Death Herders

August 11, 2009

Uneven panting filled the air as the two men caught their breath. Harry was no longer clutching the table behind him, but rather Draco’s arms, either to steady himself or to make sure Draco didn’t go anywhere. Maybe both. Draco’s legs felt unsteady as he leaned in to kiss Harry again. Reassuringly. Possessively.

Harry sighed into the kiss and relaxed his vice grip on Draco’s arms enough that Draco could pull out his wand and cast a surreptitious cleaning charm over the pair of them. Harry’s hand reached up to Draco’s face to draw his attention. There was a glint of mirth, of mischief in his eyes, of love and smugness. 

“You were stewing this whole last week, weren’t you? Furious with me for not writing.” It was a statement, not a real question. Harry’s voice was low and teasing, his smile bright, defiant. 

Draco felt his face heat and a smouldering irrational irritation, so reminiscent of his school days, bubbling irascibly at the surface. Those days he spent steeped in sexual frustration after every altercation he had with Potter, seething, seared by the closeness, by the very proximity of the object of his desire. He began to withdraw himself from Harry’s grip so he could straighten his shirt and avoid looking at him. Avoid telling him he was right. Avoid the sight of him, wrecked. 

Draco had been furious. Of course he had been furious. He had thought he’d wait for Harry to write, so that he wouldn’t feel too pushy, too needy, too consumed with his moments of pleasure, too shocked and unburdened by the release. 

Though, in the wake of that pleasure, that sweet and fluttering moments of his sexuality, reawakened, he had been filled with unease. Filled with a writhing boggart that would not rest. A voice of incessant and relentless cadence, words, no echoes, of past indiscretions. Of pleasure that came with a price, one so much more than brittle gold and silver, knuts and galleons. Pleasure that was haunted, his flesh so often visited by ghosts. 

He also felt completely incapable of voicing this to Harry, of reaching out and asking for the gentle hum of his voice, his small touches, considerate and tentative. Of his acceptance, which never cost Draco anything. Unburdened. Unfettered to pain. But Draco had been mum, afraid of asking for the reassurance he  _ needed _ . That it was real. That had been beautiful and extraordinary. And okay. 

He felt weak to let Harry know these things. These ghostly thoughts. 

“Draco.” Harry’s voice was softer, reaching for Draco’s hand and keeping him near. Draco reluctantly looked up to meet his gaze, not knowing how to explain himself. How to open those wounds in the early light of the morning, wounds that were too gristly for the day, for the sun. Wounds that he had so desperately wanted to heal, yet were stubborn and irascible. 

“You’re right, I should have written, but you should’ve as well.” He was rubbing his thumb across Draco’s wrist, slowly, rhythmically. 

Harry didn’t look angry or even upset, but Draco’s stomach twisted in knots. He knew he should have swallowed his pride and penned a fucking letter that just said “ _ I’m needy and lonely and I want you near me.” _ But, who had the bravery for that.

Draco huffed an affirmative nod and looked away. Unable to continue staring into eyes that saw right through him, right through his constructed confidence. Harry chuckled and pulled a now limp-limbed Draco into his arms and breathed him in, holding him tight. The two stood there holding on to one another, limbs woven together, half dressed, and completely rumpled. 

Draco spoke softly, reluctantly, into the tangled mass of Harry’s hair, “I missed you.”

Harry hummed in agreement, squeezing Draco in response. “Was this okay?” Draco asked quietly, feeling grossly self conscious and over exposed. He was transparent and naked, despite still having all his clothes on.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect.” Harry said, propping his chin on Draco’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“I should have written you sooner.” Draco admitted, trying to get out all the words that had been swirling in his mind for the last ten days. “I wanted to shout at you when you got here.” 

This was a gross understatement. Draco had wanted to take his frustration and insecurities and hurl them Harry in a hurricane of hellfire and hexes. He wanted to rip his head off for making Draco feel so attached, so dependant. Wanted to take their new and beautifully budding relationship and watch it explode spectacularly with his proclivity for self destruction by needling Harry and pushing him away. 

“So, instead, you pulled me off?” Harry laughed, the sound reverberating in Draco’s ribs. 

“Well…” Draco admitted reluctantly, feeling embarrassed again, his face in Harry’s neck, “you walked in the door… and just looked - you’re so -  _ Merlin, _ you drive me mad, and -” Harry chuckled fondly as Draco tripped over his words ineloquently. “And, all my senses flew out the fucking window it seems.” 

“I’m glad.” 

“...Me too.” 

Sure, he had spent the last week in a state of high strung indignation at the lack of Harry’s communication, but at the end of the day, Draco had had every chance to reach out. He could only blame himself for flailing in self deprecating misery for a week. 

Then, as soon as he had seen Harry walk through the door, he was filled with a kind of frantic rage at _ himself _ that he had wasted a whole week wrapped up in his own insecurities, not owling this gorgeous man at every chance he got. A man who smiled at him, who trusted him, who let go with him. 

Once Harry was within reach, he could only think of one way to release his pent up frustration and overwhelming feelings of intensity he had for this enigmatic person that held so much of Draco’s brokenness with acceptance and awe. He had grabbed Harry’s shirt, all thoughts of dueling and shouting gone in one moment of soft lips and hot breath, and how Harry had melted beneath him. 

He had to admit it was a better way of diffusing his adrenalin than his original plan. 

Harry murmured inaudibly, his face growing impossibly red as broke their embrace and raised Draco’s hand to his mouth to kiss the knuckles.

“What was that?” 

“Thank you.” Harry said, louder, still a bit shy. 

Draco blushed furiously in response, his heart leaping, still a bit stunned by his own bravery. Draco leaned in for one more slow, deep kiss. A thank you. A promise. An offering. A warning not to stay away so long again.

When he pulled back, Harry’s eyes looked glossy and soft, his mouth was red, and he looked properly taken apart. “Now,” he said, reaching down to help Harry put his trousers right and straighten his shirt, “why don’t you tell me why you asked me here to begin with.”

Blushing further and tucking his pants back into his trousers, Harry smiled and nodded. 

_________

“So, you see,” Harry was concluding, after nearly two hours of walking from room to room with Draco, “the space is big enough for both. The meetings can continue, and even be expanded, and we can house people who need a place to stay after their initial detox at the hospital. Luna is speaking with St. Mungo’s to work on a referral system. Greg is in charge of meeting schedules and housing arrangements for anyone who needs to stay. Hestia is expanding some sessions for trauma survivors. Sexual assault, PTSD, other mental health needs where the wizarding world seems to be seriously lacking. Dennis wants to run a weekly column on recovery from the war, surviving loss, that sort of thing.”

“Harry, I can’t believe how much work you’ve done.” Draco murmured again, easily for the 100th time. 

“It’s not all me.” He shrugged as he said it, letting the words roll off of him, drip down his sides and away from the idea that he, Harry, had single handedly founded a sanctuary. Had turned the pain, the horrors, the loneliness and isolation, and he had transformed into a means to heal. A light in the darkness. 

Grimmauld Place would soon be filled with life, and hope. 

After visiting every room, every hallway, every closet and cupboard, he was stunned by how little residual darkness there was, how safe it felt. The house had been nearly a black hole of condemnable dark magic only a year ago, and in as little as a few months, Harry had removed most all traces single handedly. Exchanging the dark web of metallic scented magic that clung to the very foundations, seeped into the wood, and hung thick in the air like noxious poison, with the light lattice work of powerful golden protective magic that felt so wholly like Harry. Warm, and safe. Like a campfire in the forest, cosseted by rowans standing sentry. Like a midsummer sunset over the older Elms around Tenebris Hollow. 

Harry’s magic was unmistakable, and it wound around the foundations just as the thestrals slinked around the forest on the ironwood door, golden and decadent, guards of the souls that would cross the threshold. 

Grimmauld Place was no longer a dilapidated war-time headquarters, no longer an abandoned ancestral home, tomb of bigots and blood supremacists, prison to Sirius, shrine to Regulus. It was a clean slate, ready for new life, a new purpose. Inoculated with Harry’s magic and own story of rebirth, it was a new era for the ancient wizarding home. Draco couldn’t have felt more pride in Harry’s work. 

“So, what about the group being mixed muggle and wizarding?” He asked Harry, resisting the urge to smooth back his hair, wild with excitement. “Surely that would breach the statute?”

“I haven’t figured that one out, yet.” Harry sighed, leading Draco back to his workshop by the hand. It was warm and calloused and made Draco feel that undeniable bursting sensation deep in his chest. “I’ve asked Ron to help me figure out the legalities, but I don’t have a solid plan quite yet. In the meantime, it’ll be magical folk only.”

Draco hummed in acknowledgement and allowed himself to be pulled down onto the ancient chaise lounge in the corner of the room, trying hard not to show how pleased he was about it. 

“And, what about your plans? For life after Ron and Hermione? Isn’t it going to be a bit much to stay here with all that’s going on? Not having your own space? Constantly being in the thick of everyone’s sobriety struggles? Especially, if you’re offering your home to people who are very new to the process.” He watched Harry carefully, his resolve finally breaking and tentatively carding his fingers through his unruly hair.

Harry was quiet for a moment, allowing his eyes to close and leaning into Draco’s soft touch, mulling over his thoughts. “I don’t know if I want to live here at all.” The words came finally, as if well considered, opening his eyes to meet Draco’s gaze. “I think I want a fresh start when I’m ready to leave the Weasley-Granger nest. Grimmauld Place will take on a life of its own, and I’m not sure I’m capable of living in a constant state of the initial withdrawal. It was hell, Draco. You remember.”

He pulled Harry towards him and they lay wrapped around one another on the musty chaise, speaking softly about the future, and, eventually succumbing to sleep in the rays of afternoon sun streaming through the window. The thudding of hooves on ancient Persian carpets echoing down the hall. 

___________

Judging by the darkness, they woke hours later, though, to Draco it only felt like minutes. He was groggy, and his mouth had that dry sawdust taste that so often accompanied unintended naps. Harry had leapt up from the sofa on sleep-unsteady legs, knocking into the coffee table and cursing at the sound of a persistent pounding on the front door. “Fuck, what time is it?!” He moaned, “Hermione’s gonna kill me.”

Draco glanced at his watch as Harry disappeared through the door, “It’s only half eight!” He shouted to Harry’s retreating footsteps on the stairs. “Half eight?” He mumbled to himself, rubbing his eyes hard. They had slept for nearly six hours. 

Draco listened as Harry walked across the front hall and opened the immense carved ironwood door. Concerned voices carried to him in a restless murmur. “I’m okay, Hermione, I’m sorry, I fell asleep.” More hurried murmuring drifted upstairs, and Draco thought it best to make himself known so Hermione wouldn’t tear Harry apart for making her worry. He was moving down the stairs, still feeling heavy from sleep, his brain foggy, when he heard Hermione’s voice more clearly. It was thick, like she had been crying. “I need to talk to you both, right now, go and get him.” 

She was a commanding sight, coming into view in the foyer, a head shorter than Harry, and yet, somehow towering over him.  Her hair was as frantic as her magic, pulsating around her. Not its usual tiny soft curls and gentle friz. It was static and unkempt, as if she hadn’t slept in days, nor had the time to tame it. They both glanced up to Draco when the sounds of his footsteps reached their ears. 

“Draco.” She nodded. “In the kitchen, please. Both of you. I don’t want any chance of being overheard.” He was surprised to see the worn and puffy-eyed sight of the usually collected Hermione, laden with her usual work bags, fresh tear tracks on her face. 

“What’s wrong?” Draco worried his lip, looking between the two, feeling a sense of forbidding settling in the pit of his stomach. The unshakable Hermione Granger had been shaken. And badly, from the looks of things.

Harry, in his interminable calm, wrapped his arm over her shoulder and gave her a squeeze, an intimate and familiar gesture. “Let’s go make some tea, yeah?” 

Hermione smiled weakly at him and allowed herself to be steered towards the kitchen. Draco followed in their wake down the dank steps and into the dark room. 

Harry lit lamps wandlessly, not only flooding the room with light, but with the warmth of his magic as well, as kind and comforting as his arm still draped around her shoulders. It felt instantly less gloomy, the darkness held at bay by his golden aura. Draco tapped the kettle with his wand, wanting to do something with his hands, as Harry steered Hermione to the bench closest to the grate, and lit a fire with a casual wave. 

“I’m glad you’re both here.” She said. Her voice was strong, despite having clearly been distressed. “I’m sorry to worry you both out like this.”

Draco walked over with the antique silver tea tray, a novelty in that it had survived the purge of the Black family home, silently preparing their cups of tea, waiting for Hermione to explain. 

“I needed to come see you both as soon as I found out.” She let out in a shaky breath. “The books…” Trailing off as she leaned over to pull them out of her bag, the sound of clattering and clinking echoing from it as she rummaged. Draco and Harry exchanged confused and worried looks. 

“I’ve received more of them from other areas of the world, and completed translations of a few others.” She took a deep breath and drew the first tome into her lap, sky blue and covered in gold embroidered Kanji, laying her hands flat across the cover, staring down at it. 

“What did you find?” Harry asked, his calm facade flickering in the fire light. Draco felt profound unease in his midsection when his eyes found the book. His hands had begun to sweat. 

She sniffed, wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve and Draco could see her quickly pulling her academic mask back into place. “This is where it started.”  

“Where what started?” Draco asked, pushing a cup of darjeeling towards Hermione, and then a second to Harry. He had scrounged a packet of biscuits from the desolate cupboards and set them on the tray.

“Thestrals appear to choose people, right?”

They both nodded. 

“Well,” she continued, “it appears they really do. All over the world. Herds of them choose people around densely magical forests to be a sort of,” she paused, gesticulating, trying to find the right word, “Shepard? Herder? Like a guide, of sorts. Or messenger, may be a more appropriate word. But it’s deep magic. Old and complicated.” 

“There are more people like Harry and I? People they’ve attached themselves to?” Draco asked, feeling that this news shouldn’t be upsetting Hermione as much as it was. 

“There were once hundreds of people like you and Harry.” Her tone was laden with regret, and her hands dropped back down into her lap, her shoulders hunched. 

“And now?” Harry asked. 

“Now, we’re lucky if there’s a dozen of you across the whole world, for all the thestrals, in all the forests.”

“Yes, but,  _ what does that mean _ ?” Draco asked, feeling his shoulders tense in annoyed anticipation. 

She took a deep breath. “From what I can understand from the texts I’ve translated, is that, in every old growth magical forest where thestral herds live, they choose at least two people who have chosen death, and also chosen life, to be the mediator between the two. To ensure a balance remains. As we have come to know, thestrals are gatekeepers to the world beyond the veil, guardians of empathy and beings of incredibly powerful magic. They seem to play a critical role in mediating the passing from our existence here to the land of the dead.”   
  
There was silence in the room. The fire popped and fizzled behind Harry, his face cast in shadow, his brow furrowed and eyes dark. 

“Every Death Herder’s powers manifest differently,” Hermione continued, “the thestrals in turn lead them to people who are on the cusp of death. The Death Herders can then use their abilities to heal them, or push them towards death. It’s very esoteric stuff that I don’t quite understand fully, I mean, I wouldn’t ever have believed it, not until… well, that doesn’t matter now. The issue, it seems, comes in when… when those people, the Herders, don’t exist.”

“I don’t understand.” Draco said blankly. He knew Hermione struggled with such imprecise branches of magic, and couldn’t for the life of him understand why she was putting so much stock in folklore. Vague, intangible, poorly described and entirely unproven. This couldn’t be real. It sounded like another fairy tale. It couldn’t be  _ them _ , even if there were grains of truth in it. Why would it be them? 

Hermione huffed and flipped open the silk bound book. Glancing at Harry, he could see sudden sadness drift across his face. He, too, could feel the dull ache of heartbreak that emanated from the pages, with its elegant black ink drawings and precise handwriting. 

“Japan is a good case study because the land size is so small and it’s more recent history in relation to its forests makes the most sense to an outsider.” She explained, regaining her strong voice. “When muggles started tearing down old growth forests to plant timber plantations and create farmland, it lead to an imbalance of magic. The thestrals herds started to dwindle, the Death Herders couldn’t draw from their magic, meaning they couldn’t do their healing. More people started to die. Suicide rates increased. Murders became more frequent.” Hermione busied her hands by tackling her hair into submission in a haphazard bun on the top of her head, sticking her wand through the core, looking down at the silk covered book as she spoke. Her voice was becoming stronger, more Hermione-like. 

“In an effort to fix the damage, wizards began practicing dark rituals to keep the power in the forests. In this particular instance, they began partaking in human sacrifice. Taking their elderly and leaving them in the forests to die as part of the ritual blood offering to ensure their own protection. It didn’t work, obviously. Hundreds of elderly magical folk were left to starve to the death amongst the trees. It ended up damaging the forest magic more.”

Draco hadn’t noticed he had been holding his breath, frozen by the implications. The dread of what magic had been spilled into the very earth. 

“The Death Herders, or the people that worked with the Thestrals, struggled with the fluctuation in magic, too. They worked for years to restore balance, to protect the forests, to increase the number of thestrals. They traveled around the country endlessly working to rebuild the devastated magic using secret rituals passed down to them from previous Death Herders, to help others heal from the trauma of land being ripped up. But there were only two of them for the whole of Japan, and they couldn’t keep up or combat the dark magic that was being performed. Thestrals were still dying, forests were still being taken down, death was proliferating. It was bad. Then, in the 1950’s one of the Death Herders found the forest where the elderly were being sacrificed, and, well,“ she took a deep breath, stealing herself, “they committed suicide, too overwhelmed by what they discovered.”

“Shit.” Harry’s voice broke the thick quiet in the kitchen. 

“And that’s not all of it.” She said grimly. “Since then, the thestral herds have died out in Japan. Their magic is so deeply connected with the forests and their chosen humans that without them, they can’t survive. Where the two wizards died, a type of magical furore has been created, like a parasitic growth where the forest magic used to be. It’s called Aokigahara now. Its known as the suicide forest. Hundreds of people have been drawn to this area, incessantly pulled in by its malignant magic, to die. It feeds on misery, much like a horcrux would.”

There was only silence and sound of blood rushing in Draco’s ears. Harry was staring into the fire, looking up after a moment to catch Draco’s harried gaze. Draco was certain that, he too, was thinking about the times they chose to die. Would their suicides have created such long lasting effects if they had been successful?

“There are other places…” Hermione continued into the silence. Draco and Harry turned horrified eyes on her as she pulled another volume forward, leafing through her translations. 

“In the Congo, the thestral herds and their Herders lived deep in an area of dense forest just South of Kivu, where mining contaminated their water sources, not just the rivers but deep in the aquifers below the forest. Magical people began killing thestrals for their bones as charms for protection against death, pouring their blood into rivers and streams to purify it. Very few thestrals remain, and there are no Death Herders reported, as far as I can tell. The last three have been killed in the ongoing conflict that started in King Leopold’s genocide.”

Draco struggled to form his racing thoughts into words. “Hermione… how…” 

She shrugged. “Death begets death in the places where thestrals aren’t keeping the balance with their Herders.” 

The list went on. And on. And on. Community after community. Forest after forest. Death after death. Manaus. West Papua. Jerusalem. Nat Ma Taung. Rio Pure. Grozny. Nam Ha. Birkenau. Siberia. The only thestral herd left on the entire North American continent was deep in a Canadian forest. All the rest had been eradicated along with the trail of tears and witch burnings. And more. So many more. 

Like Hermione said, she could only locate ten other Death Herders in five other locations where Thestral herds were strong and the forests were healthy. The Great Bear Rainforest in Canada, Diepwalle in South Africa, Linzhi in Tibet, Waipoua in New Zealand, and one small herd and a single pair of herders left for the entire Amazon. 

After Hermione had spoken herself hoarse listing all the places Death Herders and thestrals had died out, as well as the devastating consequences for the surrounding magic of the land, and its effect on people, wizarding and muggle alike, she paused. The weight of it all sat around her. Eventually, she murmured quietly, “The forbidden forest was almost on that list. Both of you almost didn’t come back. I’m fairly certain you two are the last Death Herders in Europe. In this entire section of the globe, in fact.” 

“What does that  _ mean _ , though?” Draco demanded, feeling goosebumps erupting down his spine, despite the warm glow of the kitchen fire. He could hear soft hooves treading delicately on the floor boards above the kitchen.

Hermione pulled out one last leathery book, its pages falling out, its words faded with time. It was a ledger, an old one, at that. “If my supervisor knew I had this right now, I can’t even begin to explain the shit storm that would follow.” She began. “I need you both to know that this research is being carefully monitored by higher ups at the ministry, and we’re going to have to talk about what that means for us moving forward.” 

Draco and Harry nodded apprehensively. 

“This book is a list of all the Death Herders for the Forbidden Forest thestral herds going back since before the founding of Hogwarts. Thestral lore used to be common knowledge some 400 years ago, but became secret when people wanted to use their magic for malicious purposes. That’s why this book is in the DoM, and not in its own public department in the Ministry.”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up and he repressed the urge to reach across the table and wrestle the book from her hands, his curiosity nearly bursting out of him. 

“The earliest names listed appear to be ancestors of Slytherin and Gryffindor. Diarmaid Gryffindor and Fianna Slytherin. But, I’m sure the line goes back much further. Its indicated that Death Herders were identified by the thestrals and then the tradition was handed down from the old Death Herders to the new. There is meant to be continuity. Tradition.”

“But, instead we’re finding out late and flailing in the dark?” Harry asked dryly. “Some things never change, do they?”  

Hermione nodded with a stoic smile. “It appears the tradition was broken with- with Dumbledore.”

Draco could feel the instantaneous change in Harry’s magic. It had been a slow constant pulse of unease since the conversation had started, but at the mention of Dumbledore, it became sharp and metallic tasting. The hairs on Draco’s neck stood to attention, mirroring its threatening thrum. It felt as though impending lightning crackled in the air, hot and electric. He could sense Harry’s frustration mounting. 

“Of course it was.” Harry sighed. “Why does everything in my life always come back to Dumbledore?” He asked redundantly, his face stoney. 

Hermione nodded with understanding at Harry and squeezed his hand. Draco felt the tense magic soften, even if  just a little. He took a deep breath and sent his own across the table to anchor Harry, who glanced at him with a ghost of a grateful smile. 

“It appears that Dumbledore was chosen shortly after his sister died.” She said, pulling the most recent page of the ledger out to examine. “They weren’t sure if another was ever chosen, but they suspected it could have been Grindelwald. Unfortunately, Dumbledore died before he could teach the next in line. And, Grindelwald died in Nurmengard; a Death Herder who had never learned his tradition. There’s speculation that Snape  _ could _ have been the next, but the war very effectively destroyed the chain. No one knows if Dumbledore managed to teach him anything, and who knows if ever meant it to be Harry after he sent him to die in the forest. That’s what’s so scary about this. Humans do things, like start wars, deforest an area, practice dark magic, and it damages the balance between life and death. Damages the delicate thestral and forest magic. From there it spirals. Creates chasms of dark magic, more human conflict, more death, more damage.”

They fell into silence for a few long moments, listening to the crackle of fire, processing the information. “So,” Draco broke first, “I have a few questions.”

“Me too.” Interjected Harry. 

Hermione nodded. 

“First, what the hell are we supposed to do as Death Herders? What is that job description, even? Keep the balance between life and death? How the fuck does one do that?”

Harry snorted. Hermione looked pained. “I have some information on that.” 

“Great.” Draco deadpanned, not feeling that it was great at all. “Next, what does this mean for our research? How the hell do we quantify this? Analyze it?” If possible Hermione went even paler, looking even more worried. “What?” Draco pushed. “What’s wrong?”

She took a deep breath. “We have to stop the research, Draco.” She said in barely a whisper. “It’s not safe to continue.”

“What?!” He shouted, startling both of them. “What do you  _ mean _ it’s not safe?!”

“Draco-“ Harry reached out a hand to sooth him, but he wasn’t having any of it. 

“No… no, no, no!” he bleated, feeling wrung out. “Explain! How are you going to tell me we’re some chosen death oracles and then say we can’t keep researching after we’ve made the biggest break yet?!”

“Draco, please,” she said quickly, “I was called into a meeting with higher ups in the DoM, people who technically don’t even exist, that’s how deep they are in unspeakable research, who have been very interested in the progress of your work. They mentioned in passing that they have an eye on you and Harry, and whoever else may be connected with thestrals. That’s why they’re so keen to get you on the payroll. That’s why they were so keen for me to pursue this research with all my time and energy. I don’t know what their intentions are, but I’ve worked for the DoM long enough to know that when they want to  _ study _ someone, it’s never for the benefit of that  _ someone.  _ I can say with confidence that their interest in your roles as Death Herders is not benign.”

Draco felt enraged. Not at Hermione, but at the faceless entities who could pull strings so effectively from the ministry to exert control over him. “So, what? We just stop? I thought I was a Death Herder, doesn’t that have a list of responsibilities? Some power? Some sway?” 

“Yes.” she said placatingly. “But, I think we need to get it off the record. They’re not interested in keeping the forest safe, or magic of the land balanced to prevent evil maelstroms from forming, they’re interested in the power behind your connection. How they could weaponize it. This is what’s happening all over the world. Magical governments using these connections to create conflict and fear. We can’t let that happen here. You two need the space and freedom to discover what this connection means without worrying about the ministry breathing down your necks. I’d never be able to live with myself if one day I wake up and you two have disappeared to some deep dark level of the DoM, never to be heard from again.”

“Shit, is that possibility?” Harry asked, real concern lacing his words.

“Yes, Harry, it is. Even for you. Especially for you. And, it’s why so many other places are so careful about sharing their thestral lore. They realize how important it is to the magic of a place, and how quickly it can be exploited to destabilize an area.”

Draco looked up and met Harry’s eyes, studying his face hard. Draco was thinking about all the unbelievable ways their lives were intertwined. It made him feel a sense of panic rather than finding it romantic in anyway. The fear he felt in the forest that they were only drawn to one another by circumstance doing circuits in his mind again. His internal boggart stretched languidly, readying itself for an evening of theatrics.

“Stop.” Harry said quietly, breaking the emotional spiral Draco was starting. He jumped in response, but didn’t say anything. “Stop thinking so hard, we’ll figure this out.”

Draco felt Harry’s magic wrap around him like a heavy blanket, the weight of it containing him. 

He nodded and Harry sighed. 

“What must we do?” He said, turning his attention back to Hermione, who had watched their nearly silent interaction with interest. 

She shook herself before answering, “I think Draco’s manifestation of his healing powers are most obvious. He’s a healer. He’s a potions master. He’s capable of using his thestral to heal people. Draco, you seem to have the physical healing side covered.”

Draco nodded, feeling that this was okay, it seems he could just carry on as he had been. Not too bad. 

“You’ve seen thestrals at St. Mungo’s, have you ever noticed them in specific patient rooms? Have they ever seem to lead you anywhere?”

“Not that I’ve noticed…” Draco started, trying to think of all the rooms he had seen them. “I mean, Voileami was always near my most dire cases, yes, but that could just be a coincidence. Those are the patients I spent the most time with.” He thought carefully. “No… wait- she was always nearest the patients I administered my thestral potions to…” he realised. 

“Hmm.” Hermione nodded fervently. “That’s good. That’s great, actually. We’ll come back to this. Harry, you on the other hand are a bit harder to figure out. Can you think of where your thestral comes around the most?”

Harry had a hard, contemplative look on his face, his one arm drawn across his midsection, his other hand fisted under his chin, his mouth a hard line. 

“Luna’s.” Draco said, softly. “He’s always at Luna’s. And here.”

“Yes, but what do the two places have in common?” Hermione asked. 

“I don’t know.” Harry said, sighing heavily. “One place is full of healing deep wounds, another is full of dark magic that allows the wounds to fester.”

“Not anymore.” Draco, countered. Grimmauld Place was no longer the nightmarish place of dark magic, it was full of love and light. Full of the smell of wood shavings and hope. “You’ve made this place just as welcoming as Luna’s. You couldn’t spend your free time here if it wasn’t. You couldn’t make those memorials if you were surrounded by dark magic.”

Hermione gasped. “Harry that’s it! Your healing power!”

“What?” He asked, looking dumbfounded. 

“You help people heal on an emotional and mental level. Draco puts them back together physically and you help put them back together psychologically! Don’t you see?”

Harry looked startled. “Hermione, I barely have my own emotions figured out, I don’t think I’m healing anyone. I’m just doing my best to get through one day at a time.”

“I think she’s right.” Draco said before Hermione could explode with her next argument. 

Harry’s eyes flicked over to Draco, questioning, he felt his chest tighten. “Look what you did for Dennis. What you’re doing for others. Look what you’re doing with this house. At your meetings. You’re helping people heal, Harry. It might not seem as straightforward as what I’m doing, but your thestral has been subtly guiding you as well.”

“Okay. I think I can accept that, if you think I’m already doing something helpful. But, we’re avoiding the giant thestral in the room, aren’t we? The healing stuff is all fine and well, but what about the other side of the coin? Pushing people towards death? I don’t want to do that, that sounds like playing God. Sounds like Dumbledore. I had enough of that. I won’t do it again.”

“From what I understand, it’s not about playing judge, jury, and executioner, like you’re thinking,” Hermione countered quickly. “Death Herders have the capacity to push people towards death when the person in question is upsetting the balance of magic. People like Voldemort or Grindelwald could have been pushed towards death, you see?”

“Not really.”

“No.”

Harry and Draco had both spoken at the same time. 

Hermione sighed and leaned back over the bench, reaching back into her bag. She pulled out a book from the Congo, it’s hard wooden cover carved in deep marks. It looked like a work of art, with its grooves cast in stark relief in the flickering fire light. She leafed through to a place she had marked with a sheet of translations. “So, when I said that thestral Herders keep the magic balanced, I mean that they mostly accomplish this by healing the land and people. Okay? Their ability to push people towards death is a rarely used power that comes with checks and balances. You don’t just go around killing people you don’t like, that would give you too much unchecked power. And, besides, you could accomplish that well enough by choosing to turn your back on your thestrals and healing skills, like Grindelwald did.”

She pushed the open book towards the two of them to show an illustration. It showed two figures standing in ceremonial robes at the centre of a circle, their hands held high above them, a look of supplication underneath the lines of tribal paint. To the left stood a thestral and a sun, to the right was a large black dog and the crescent moon. An enormous tree stretched from the bottom of the circle to the top, its roots curling around to meet its own branches. It reminded Draco of the norse Yggdrasil, but distinctly African. Instead of surrounded by Celtic knots or norse runes, it was encircled by geometric markings and shapes. 

“What’s this other creature?” Draco asked, pointing to the dog. “It looks like a wolfhound. Or a Grim.”

“I think that’s exactly what it is, Draco. A Grim.” Hermione rushed out her words, eager to follow his train of thought. “According to this translation, The Death Herders use thestrals to heal, and Grims to kill. But in order to use the Grim, the Death Herder must gain its trust and allegiance willingly. If not, the Grim won’t do a Death Herders bidding. There are, of course, blood rituals that can be used to trap a Grim into doing a Death Herder’s work, but the ritual is very, very dark. I can’t be sure if I believe there are people who have used it.”

“Okay, so we don’t know any Grims, and we’re not under threat from people like Voldemort, so that part of the job doesn’t really seem relevant.” Harry said dismissively, eagerly. It was clear to Draco that he didn’t like the idea of death being part of the job. 

“Well, yes.” Hermione conceded. “But, I think we’ll have to re-examine this. I have a lot more reading to do, but I need to start protecting my work from the DoM. They won’t expect me to come up with nothing, though I’ve already destroyed much of my initial notes.”

“So, what now?” Draco finally asked after Hermione had pulled her wand from her messy bun, casting charms to erase her pages of careful notation. 

Harry took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes hard. Draco felt the way Harry looked. Tired on a bone deep level. “I know we need to keep this quiet from the DoM and the Ministry. But, I don’t want to live like Dumbledore. Secrets and lies. I can’t live like that, I need to be different.”

“What are you saying?” Hermione asked, her voice laced with concern. 

“I’m saying we need help. We need reinforcements. We need a plan.” He sounded like he was teetering on the edge of being frantic. Like it was taking all of his effort to remain level headed and calm in the face of so much information, so much change. 

“Where do we start?” Draco asked. 

“Right here.” He had stood and was walking back around the old wooden table, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “It’s going to be a long night.” 

Draco watched as Harry waved his hand to cast his patronus. As Harry spoke to the silvery thestral, Draco walked back to the kettle to make more tea and a plan for food. It appeared they would be having company after all. 

_____________________

It was nearing midnight when the last of the patronus responses came in. Luna’s hare had just faded into silver vapor, Luna’s voice trailing after it, “We’ll be there in 30 minutes, dear”, when Harry began pacing like a caged animal. Draco didn’t feel much better, but instead of pacing, he sat still as stone, taking in the details of the room as Hermione furiously scribbled notes. 

They had moved upstairs into the sitting room to accommodate their guests. The same room that Harry had prepared to one day hold meetings. Harry had run out of the kitchen the moment his patronus had left and begun pulling chairs from every which room. He had carried them, without magic, down to the sitting room, and by the time Draco had arrived with a full tea tray, a very sweaty Harry had quite neurotically arranged them all in a near perfect circle, mismatched and uncoordinated as they all were. 

The room was unrecognisable from the first few times Draco had visited. The carpets were soft pastel greens with grey filigree. The house had produced sumptuous mossy curtains that hung in lush folds, and the wall paper had changed from peeling yellow to a muted silver. It reminded him viscerally of his Slytherin dormitory, only more grown up, and softer, less demanding. Harry had worked the wooden floors and moulding back into a healthy shine, and the empty marble fireplace had a single photo of Sirius and Remus in a tiny silver frame just on the left of the mantle. 

Draco could sense Harry’s mounting distress. Could feel the prickle on his skin. Could taste the tinge of metal on his tongue. It mirrored the same acrid sense of panic Draco could feel in the pit of his stomach, and he was desperate to sooth it away. 

He stood on numb legs and walked directly into Harry’s line of fire. Nearly running Draco over, Harry stopped abruptly, clearly startled that his path and train of thought had been impeded. He reflexively reached out to stop himself from falling forward with momentum and steadied himself on Draco’s biceps, his fingers digging in to the hard muscle. 

Draco levelled his gaze at Harry, steadying him, and took a deep breath. “Spit it out.” he said, and Harry frowned. 

“What?” 

“I said, spit it out. If you pace anymore your magic is going to catch the rug on fire.” He knew Harry was feeling overwhelmed, knew he was feeling caged, but also knew that if he stewed in the feeling it would only get worse. Draco saw his own warning signs reflecting in Harry. 

Harry sighed, his shoulders drooping. His hard edges softened a bit. Avoiding Draco’s eye he growled, “I don’t want this.”

“What don’t you want?” 

“Any of this- this-  _ chosen _ bullshit.” He spat, gripping Draco’s arms harder. His face contorting in rage. “I just wanted a normal fucking life! Why can’t I have a normal life?! I didn’t ask for these thestrals to come find me!”

Draco brought his hands up gently to Harry’s elbows to ground him, his heart aching, and Harry released his painfully tight grip on Draco quickly, looking guilty, and, if it were possible, even more angry with himself. Harry withdrew and Draco stepped forward to maintain their proximity, taking his hands firmly in his, not saying anything yet. Waiting. 

Looking down, Harry spoke in a low and pained voice. “First, I was chosen by a prophecy, then I was chosen by Voldemort, then Dumbledore chose to use me as a pawn in a war. I don’t want to be  _ chosen  _ for things I didn’t sign up for any more! I don’t want this, Draco.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. He had already accepted that the thestrals had chosen them. Accepted his role among them. He had been doing it for years without realising it. What scared him most was the possibility of being stopped by the ministry or DoM or messing up somehow, maybe even the looming threat of Azkaban, a punishment they had threatened him with in days before. What scared him now was how few Death Herders were left and how little they knew. Harry, it seemed, was still fervently stuck on the first step of assuming his role.

Draco couldn’t relate. Not because he didn’t see Harry’s plight, but because he finally felt vindicated to be chosen for something with purpose for who he was, a healer. The thestrals saw something in Draco that made him worthy. He had rarely felt anything like that before. He had been chosen for things in the past, sure, but only to be used as a means to an end. In school he was often chosen for things because of his name, not because of who he was. And, later he was chosen to be a Death Eater because of his family, then chosen to kill Dumbledore to punish his parents. 

“I’m sorry, Harry.” Draco said. “I know you don’t want to be used, but this, we can do  _ good _ with this. We can make a difference.”

“I did good as the Chosen One, didn’t I? That wasn’t exactly a fucking picnic.” 

“No, I don’t suppose it was.” Draco conceded. He felt utterly lost. “So, what are you saying? Are you saying no? Am I on my own with this?” He felt overwhelmed by the task.

Harry met Draco’s eyes, and he saw a war there. Confusion and hurt, trauma and desperation. 

Before Draco could hear his answer, however, they heard the ironwood door open and familiar voices calling from the hall. The caged animal in Harry returned and he dropped Draco’s gaze and hands, turned on his heels, fleeing the room, leaving Draco standing there, struck with the overwhelming urge to cry. As if in the distance, he heard Hermione greet their very concerned friends. 

______________

Ten minutes later, everyone was settled in the sitting room. Well, everyone except for Harry, who had yet to return. Fuck.

Luna had brought food that was being set out on the low, ornate coffee table by Greg. Hermione walked in circles around the room, reinforcing the magic for privacy and safety, silvery wisps of delicate charmwork dissipating into the air like smoke, breathy and ethereal. 

Draco didn’t know where Harry had hidden himself in the empty expanses of the house, and he didn’t know how to explain to everyone why they were here at 12:30 in the morning on a Wednesday. He stood in the middle of the room, his hands at his sides, completely out of his element, fraying the sleeve of his jacket between his thumb and forefinger nervously. 

Gregg and Luna were still in their pyjamas, wrapped in fluffy bathrobes, Luna complete with bunny slippers. Across from them draped on the old settee he and Harry had napped on earlier, carried down from the work room, Hestia looked regal. She was adorned with violet flower crowns and wrapped in purple and gold silk, her feet tucked neatly beneath layers of luxuriant fabric. Neville, who was perched at the far end of the same settee, was still wearing his gardening apron, a smudge of compost across his freckled cheek, as if he had been interrupted doing midnight replanting. 

Across the room on a high backed sofa, Ron was wearing an atrociously ratty orange t-shirt, emblazoned with “world’s best cannons supporter and mom” and matching bottoms, covered by an ancient oilskin coat. He appeared to be the mother hen of the group, fussing over the tea tray and hoarding several biscuits and two cups of tea. He had come laden with bags of pies and biscuits that he proudly announced he had absconded from his mother’s when he dropped Rose off. Hermione soon joined him with a small smile, digging in to the assortment of pies, Ron smiling triumphantly. 

“Well,” Draco started, keenly aware of the fact that he wasn’t sure what the hell he was going to say. How does one start? Greetings, I’m the new reaper, please help yourself to some light refreshments?

“Where’s Harry?” Asked Luna, concern etched on her normally placid features. 

“I think he may be having a meltdown about what we need to tell you.” Draco sighed, his heart heavy.

“Well, we can’t start without him, dear. Won’t you and Neville go and get him? I’m sure he’s a wreck. He doesn’t handle much stress well, you know.” Luna snuggled up in her bathrobe against Greg, who was marveling at a mince pie he’d knicked from Ron’s supply. He gave Ron a thumbs up. 

“Yes, better hurry. It’s likely a destructive one if it was worth calling us out of our beds at this time of night. He never did deal with change well, our Harry.” Hestia sighed, reviewing her black polished nails and nudging Neville with her foot. “Off you go.” 

Draco sighed and looked to Neville. “Come along then, Longbottom.”  

They looked in room after room before Draco caught the faint sound of smashing glass somewhere in the distance. They were up on the third floor by this time, creeping through the dark and dusty rooms, many of which decorated in verdant Slytherin green, still adorned with snakes. Drawn by a growing chorus of muffled yells and grunts and tinkling glass, Draco crept toward the bay window of the third guest bedroom they’d searched. Their faces nearly pressed to the glass, he and Neville knelt on the bench, noses tipped down at the figure of a rampaging Harry in the back garden, complete with his ever watchful thestral. 

“Oh.” said Neville softly, and Draco groaned, his breath fogging up the pane. They watched as Harry threw empty pots at the garden wall, paced back and forward, and yelled at his thestral. He was kicking with supreme incoordination at a haggard rose bush, and shouting things like “Fuck you, destiny!” and “Dumbledore, you cock!”, or Draco’s favorite “Chosen one MY ASS”. 

Draco watched as Harry seized a fistful of dirt from the ground and attempted to fling it away from himself, only managing to hit his own face with the crumbling clump of earth, exploding with a sonorous, “FUCK you, you piece of shit  _ dirt _ !” He tried to go back to kicking the rosebush, but underestimated the distance and ended up kicking his own legs out from under himself in his violent flailing. It was a full blown tantrum, the proportions of which, Draco had never seen in adult before.

“I suppose we should intervene.” Draco said with a sigh as he turned from the window to walk back downstairs. 

Coming through the back of the house, they approached the glass garden doors, through which they could hear Harry raving at his lone companion. “What’s the fucking point?! What are you even looking at you stupid demon horse bird?! I can kick plants if I want, it’s my house, and I’m a fucking adult! An adult who doesn’t want to be anyone’s fucking saviour anymore! That’s right! Take your emotional needs and shove them up your ass!” 

Draco reached out to turn the handle to the garden, not caring to be quiet, as he didn’t want to startle Harry. It didn’t matter, however, Harry was too far gone in his rampaging tirade to notice anything. “Dumbledore, you cocksucker! What other surprises are you going to spring on me from beyond the grave, huh?! What else you got?! Who else needs to die for world peace?!” He was screeching at the garden wall as he paced and kicked over more gardening tools. 

He was picking up another pot to hurl at the wall, his hair plastered to his face with sweat, his shirt damp, and soil streaked across his face and arms, when he yelled, “You know what? I’m just going to go back to doing  _ drugs _ ! Yup! That’s right! It was way  _ fucking easier _ !” Draco felt the bottom fall out of his stomach as he stared at Harry, who hurled the pot at the wall, watching it shatter spectacularly. 

The stillness of the moment that followed seemed to crack through Harry’s rage and bring him back to himself. Before anyone could react, however, Harry’s thestral moved forward and grabbed the back of his shirt collar, deftly yanking him off balance and pulling him to the beast’s side. 

“Oh my god.” Harry moaned, loudly, fighting off the creature with ineffective shoving. “What is wrong with me?! Get off!” He shouted as the thestral moved to wrap him protectively in his wings, it’s own yells of displeasure drowning out Harry’s. As if the thestral knew better than Harry and wanted everyone to know. “I’m sorry I said it! I didn’t mean it! I’ll go to the meeting, you rotten menace!”

“Harry James  _ Potter _ , what the absolute FUCK did you just say?!” Draco finally found his voice beneath his shock and anger. Neville took a step backwards, as if mortified by being caught in a domestic, eager to make a quick escape. 

Harry stilled comically with huge eyes as the thestral continued to flap its wings around him, pulling him closer, as a hen does with an errant and disobedient chick. “I didn’t fucking mean it!” He yelled in defeat. “I didn’t mean it, and I’ll go into the meeting if this fucking demonic bat gets off of me!”

Harry let out one last childish howl of indignation, and Draco felt his frustration in the magic rolling off of him. The rose bush Harry had so valiantly tried to stomp to death caught fire. Neville jumped forward to douse the flames. 

Voileami had appeared silently behind Draco, her ears pinned back staring at Harry, clearly very irritated by the display. Draco touched her neck gently for reassurance. 

“Come on, you fucking fleabag, lets go inside and be adults! We need to keep the bloody balance or some such bollocks.” Came Harry’s muffled voice from beneath the wings of his screeching thestral. 

“Fleabag, really?” Draco said. Feeling supremely unimpressed with Harry’s meltdown, and wanting to goad him for making him worry so very much. 

“Well, sorry I can’t speak fucking French to give him a snooty name!” Harry shouted as he finally freed himself from his captor, uselessly straightening his sweat soaked shirt and pushing past Draco and Neville into the house. The gigantic beast following inconveniently close, still making an inordinate amount of noise that sounded suspiciously like nails being raked across a chalkboard. 

Between the horrific sounds, Harry muttered mutinously under his breath, “Voileami, fucking posh French names, who speaks French anyways?” 

“I speak French, you fucking prat.” 

“Well, my thestral’s name is fucking Fleabag. Because I’m a poor, uncultured swine!” 

Draco rolled his eyes so hard it nearly gave him a headache. Harry was being difficult for the sake of it. He shouldn’t engage. This was clearly a tantrum. An absolute meltdown. But, oh how he wanted to pick at their discord, to let Harry’s rage grow into a fight he could partake in. 

“I want my fucking yellow chair.” Harry demanded petulantly as they came into the hallway leading to the sitting room. 

“I brought it, Harry.” Came Luna’s soft call, singsong and instantly calming, and Draco could visibly see Harry’s shoulders dropping down, defeat maring his posture. He slunk into the room like a kicked dog and took up his position, arms and legs crossed in his yellow armchair so tightly it looked as if it may take several years to untangle them. Their thestrals slunk into the room snorting their disapproval, crowding about, Voileami’s tail constantly swishing and hitting Greg on the back of the head.

Draco took up the low ottoman next to Harry’s yellow chair and pulled his legs up to sit cross legged. He felt drained and wanted to collapse in on himself. The magic radiating off Harry felt frayed and disjointed, frightened. Despite his supreme irritation, he knew that this was Harry’s poor coping getting the better of him. Harry wasn’t perfect. He was painfully human, and it was in these moments of painful regression that Draco remembered how far Harry had come. He pooled his inner reserves to send soothing tendrils of his own magic to buffet the raw waves of Harry’s own. Their magic clashed for an instant, feeling electric and sharp, before settling into one another, slowly beginning to wind down. Harry let out a ragged breath.

Hermione began speaking. She let Harry and Draco sit silently next to one another. She fielded the questions and filled them all in on everything they knew. How Harry and Draco were the last Death Herders in this part of the world, how Draco’s healing with physical, how Harry’s was psychological. What this meant for them moving forward, how being a Death Herder meant needing to be close to the thestral herds, needing to engage with their gift, lest death beget more death. 

She told them about the Grim, about keeping balance. About Dumbledore and the DoM. She stressed how much emotional support they would need to make this work. How they needed to learn their calling without letting the Ministry catch wind of what they were up to. When she had filled them all in and they fell into contemplative silence, Neville was the first to speak. 

“Harry, mate, I can see you’re having a hard time with this, but, it could be an incredible opportunity.”

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t look up. But, Draco felt his magic raise like hackles. 

“No, really, I mean, see what those potions did for my parents? It’s been unbelievable.”

“Yeah, Harry, and you honestly saved Dennis. If it weren’t for what you did for him I don’t think he would have ever had a chance at long term sobriety.” chimed in Greg. 

Harry shifted uncomfortably as if shrugging off an irksome fly. His thestral stomped his feet. Draco wanted to reach out and take his hand, but instead kept still. Fearing it was unwanted. 

Softly from beside Neville, Hestia spoke. “Neville, it may seem amazing to you, but a lifetime tethered to death isn’t something most people would be too thrilled about. And Harry’s seen enough death to last several lifetimes.”

At that, Harry finally looked up, his magic smoothed back down, his shoulders softened. Draco knew that Harry just wanted to be heard, to be understood, to have authority over his own life. He didn’t want to feel guilted into something. Didn’t want to feel ruled by a savior complex he worked so hard to leave behind. 

Draco felt an idea solidify in his mind that made his heart sink but knew it was the right thing to do. For Harry. He reached over and set his hand on the arm of the chair, earning him a sideways glance from Harry. 

“Harry, no one can make you do this. You’re right. It’s not fair. You didn’t ask to be chosen for anything. And if you choose not to-”

“But-” Hermione tried to interrupt, but Draco quelled her with an imperious look. 

“-we’ll all support that decision.” He finished. Before he could remove his hand, Harry’s reached out and grabbed it tightly and he nodded stiffly, seemingly too overwhelmed to speak. 

“I’m sure that if you chose not to follow this path, the thestrals will eventually choose another person. I can get by on my own in the meantime.” Their thestrals stood perfectly still and silent behind them, their ears pinned back in reproach. 

Harry was sitting perfectly still, his eyes burning holes into the rug. His magic felt conflicted to Draco. Possessive. Frustrated. Angry. Undecided. 

Draco felt his eyes prickle and his nose burn and he valiantly fought down the stupidly embarrassing urge to cry for the second time that night. 

“Okay,” Hermione ceded, “while Harry decides what he wants to do, Draco, in the meantime, we need a reason for you to be closer to the thestral herds. A front of sorts. I know you were thinking of opening a private practice, and I think that would be a perfect opportunity for you to relocate to Hogsmeade, maybe. What do you think of that?”

“Well, since the DoM is off the table, and I’m still woefully unemployed, I might as well start looking for premises.” Draco huffed, feeling entirely exhausted and overwhelmed. It was past two in the morning and he was ready for the sweet release of sleep. 

“Great. You can continue to make your potions there, and Luna and I, with our work with St. Mungo’s, can get referrals for patients to come to you. Next week we’ll officially close down our research saying we’ve reached a dead end, and you’ll announce that you’re planning to open your private practice. This way you can continue to heal with the thestrals but appear to be just a normal healer with a potions clinic. I think we also need to involve McGonagall.”

Draco numbly nodded his head. Harry still held tight to his hand, but he felt incredibly alone.

After everyone had said their goodbyes around three, each with a part to play in the grand plan of keeping the Death Herder tradition alive and well, and Harry from another tantrum, Draco was left standing with none other than the golden trio. Harry, who had barely said two words the entire meeting, still had a vice grip on Draco’s hand, and Hermione, who was gathering her things, listened while Ron talked genially about Rose, seemingly oblivious to the tension. 

Hermione turned to Harry, who still appeared lost in thought, and chimed, oh so innocently, “Are you coming home with us? Or?” She blushed a litte, leaving the unfinished question hanging in the air. 

Draco opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say, but Harry got there first. “No. Not now, Hermione. I need some space, some time.” His voice cracked with disuse. “If, if that’s alright with you.” He asked awkwardly, finally meeting Draco’s eyes for the first time in what felt like an eternity. 

Draco nodded dumbly feeling relieved and irritated at the same time. 

They said their goodbyes and soon they were standing alone together in the sitting room. Their thestrals watching with interest. Harry took a deep breath and turned to face Draco. “I’m sorry, Draco. But, it’s true what I said. I need space. And time. To think things through. Alone.” 

“Harry…” 

Before Draco had time to voice his thoughts, his concerns, his rising panic, the questions that came with the notions of space, of time, Harry had swept past him and out the door, the crack of apparition fading on the wind. 

  
  
  



	16. The Grim

##  The Grim

August 12, 2009

Harry sat with his back to the wind. It was late, now, the sun sinking into the endless fields to his left, shadows stretching out across the moor and into the oncoming dark of of the evening. 

His shoulders were shaking, and he rocked forward slowly, big, uncontained sobs falling from his chest, swept away into the wind. By his side, his left hand was wrapped around the neck of a bottle full of amber liquid. His right was curled tightly in a fist around the cap. 

He had apparated to one of the tiny villages they had pilfered food from during their year on the run, a place where no one would ever recognise him. Where no one would think anything of him walking into the little corner liquor shop and picking up a bottle of Jameson. Where no one would imagine that magnitude of that simple, innocuous action. 

The brown paper bag they had slipped the bottle into had felt soft beneath his hands, gentle over the solid, cool glass. They had wished him well and he had walked along the country lane leading away from the village for a long time before he gathered the courage to take himself to the moor. The same hillside he had fled to the night after he couldn’t fuck Ginny, the same that had held their little tent in the quiet and the fear of the year before the war. 

Harry had sat there many long hours before he had slipped the paper bag from his purchase, letting the wind take it tumbling away across the hillside, all softness gone. The bottle had been cold and hard but comfortable, and he had uncapped it without too much thought or struggle, it was muscle memory, after all. 

It was only after the smell had wafted up from the open vessel that he had started to cry. Really, truly, cry. 

Big, gulping breaths, scared and confused, childlike. Hiccuping and uncontrolled, unmanageable, sobs with a life of their own, sobs that sounded like toddlerhood, when the world is nothing but unmanageable emotions. Though, Harry would never had known that, as Harry had never really been a child. 

Harry kept wanting to bring the bottle up to his lips to drink, but the cataplexy that accompanied his relentless crying would not lend him the coordination, and he was trapped, limp and lifeless, and the bottle stayed at his side. 

As the stars began to make their nightly appearance along the deep purple of the Eastern horizon, Harry found himself finally able to breathe again. In. And out. Deep breaths. And he concentrated on marking each cycle, each exchange, each renewal, and letting the last shudders of his hysterics ease away into the gathering night and the relentless wind. 

He sat at the edge between relapse and sobriety for some time, his left hand still curled around the neck of the bottle, but not capable of stomaching the memories that the acrid smell of alcohol would bring. The disgusting. The revulsion. 

How he craved to be free of all of the pain, the fear, the terror of his future. How he needed to let go of the responsibility, of the pressure. How he begged for escape. All of that juxtaposed against the knowledge that he loved his new life. His sobriety. That happiness was his, was attainable, that drowning all of these things in a bottle of Jameson was cowardice, was easy. 

But this, again. Chosen for death. He was a marked man, no matter how far he fled, no matter how much work he put in to building a life he loved. Death followed him from that place. It had followed him since he was barely a year old. Followed, and hunted. Haunted, even. 

Harry pulled the bottle closer and into his lap. 

Two paths diverged in the woods. 

Here he was, again. Deciding between life and death. Alone. 

Alone. 

But, was he? By choice, this time. He wasn’t isolated in a web of mistruths and secrets. He had his support system. He need only to reach out… 

“Ron.” It was nothing but a whisper on the wind from his lips, but there was no one else. Harry needed the kindness of the boy who gave him half his sandwich on the train, and the friend who had shaken Harry awake from his nightmares for years, who had given him a home and a family and who had struggled and persevered when the depths of his own mind had held him prisoner. Harry needed his best friend. 

There was a crack, and Ron was slipping the deluminator back into his pocket as he sank down on the hilltop, next to Harry, still wearing an apron, splattered with spaghetti sauce, a bit of flour on his nose. 

Harry handed him the bottle, and Ron vanished it, and that was that. 

They sat together on the moor, the night somehow much warmer and kinder, now, the wind not so frantic, giving way to a gentle breeze. And, eventually, they talked. 

It was during a lull that Ron turned to look at Harry, his hand idly picking at the blades of grass between them. After a moment, he spoke, his voice soft and careful. 

"The moments where I could imagine his voice - how it would catch me. His laugh. An echo of me, a haunting I could never outrun. Sometimes, I wanted to tell the jokes that I know would echo with his laugh. I wanted to jump into that place of joy with him again, at my side, in my mind, following me, raucous and unburdened. But, everywhere I go, there is a depth of sadness, a pity, a drowning plea to move on. To forget. To leave the painful memory of Fred in the ethers, to carry on without him.”

Ron tilted his head back, looking up at the stars. 

“But, little brother, I can’t do that. I can’t carry on. How can everyone expect me to? I remember him in every freckle on my face, in every wave of my wand, every spell and every charm. Every breath of mine was once also shared with him, for our worlds were just so intertwined, just as we were before we came into this place. Before breath. And so, when they wanted to forget, they asked me to join them. And they couldn’t understand why I could not. I could not. How can they not see what cruelty it is to ask me? Here, I am surrounded by his muse, a vision of a world of chaotic happiness, and I am mourning. Always mourning. Mourning and forgetting. I can not. I will not.” 

He paused, the wind falling across the moor, long grass waving in the fading light. Rustling. His hand was still at his side, and clouds drifted along the Western horizon. 

“The last page of George’s note.” Ron’s voice was steady, in a way that let Harry know that this was a passage he had recited many times before. A place that once stung with loss, sharp and unforgiving, but had grown into an ache. A dull and sordid pain. Pain that lingers. Lingers like the memory of two brothers, long lost to the world this side of the veil. 

“He was drinking a lot. Near the end.” Ron turned to look at Harry. A sadness had settled over him, an exhaustion. He had carried this secret for long. 

“I didn’t stop him. I didn’t help. He needed me, and I didn’t know what to do.” Plaintive words, thick and heavy. Tears were tumbling down along his long freckled nose. 

“It’s not your fault, Ron.” Harry was reaching for him, and Ron let himself be pulled into a crushing hug, Harry’s grip so tight around him, so desperate to scrub the guilt from him, to pull the weight of his admission aside. 

“Harry he needed someone. Someone to tell. Someone to help him. Someone to make death okay. To make Fred’s death okay. I didn’t know how.” 

Harry released him from the hug, leaning back to look at Ron, to regard him in his apron, long and gangly and red-haired. Ron, who had tried so hard to believe in him, to stand by him, but who struggled with demons of doubt and regret. Of inadequacy. Of guilt. 

Ron, who had become a father in these years, who had lost and gained so much from life. Ron, who now knew death. Who saw thestrals. Who heard voices from beyond the veil. Ron, who was asking Harry for something in his words. Words that told Harry that George could have been saved. That George had needed a guide, a gentle pull from the arms of death, who waited for him as it had for Harry, as a respite. A friend. 

Ron was asking him to walk the brittle line between the two, life and death. To heal, in his own way, the wounds that death would come sniffing out, hungry and hopeful.

Ron, who had never asked him for anything. 

“I don’t know if I can.” And Harry reached down to hold Ron’s hand in his. 

“I know, Harry. I know.” And there was no animosity in his words and the squeeze of Harry’s hand. Ron believed in him. Believed in Harry, but didn’t temper his belief with expectation. Perhaps, just with hope.

_____________

August 17, 2009

It was several nights later that Harry left the sanctuary of Ron and Hermione’s and returned to Grimmauld Place. He brought his box of things, meagre though they were, and carried them upstairs into Sirius’s bedroom, laying them gingerly on the floor next to the bed. The bed he had built himself, strong beams of Khaya Mahogany, so keen to soak up the new magic of the place. He paused a moment to revel in the feel of Sirius and Remus, lingering love that seemed to scatter itself about the room, as if it were at home amongst the dust. 

Harry let his magic reacquaint with theirs - a wild and untamed feeling, but stoic and strong. Sure. He pulled Sirius’s jacket from the box and slipped it around his shoulders. He wanted to be strong, like Sirius. Strong and unafraid of doing what is right. What is good. Strong, and unencumbered by doubt. Strong, like the mahogany. 

As he lifted the jacket, he had uncovered the white and gold book that Draco had gifted him so many months ago. The Salacious Adventures of Gable and Herbert had been hidden under his bed at the Granger-Weasley’s, though frequently taken out and rifled through, beneath the most impenetrable of silencing charms. Aside from being delectably erotic, it was a beautiful and romantic story of love conquering all kinds of odds. Of extraordinary people being propelled into the most dire of circumstances for the sake of their person. 

Harry sighed deeply, laying back on the new sheets and soft blanket, thinking of Gable and Herbert. Remus and Sirius. Of his parents. Of himself, and Draco. Love, grown in the garden of extraordinary odds. Why did it always seem to end in death? 

It wasn’t long before he drifted off to sleep, his mind still deeply troubled by the cruelty of fate. 

________________

Harry was panting, running close to the ground, long legs and broad black paws stretching out in front of him as he loped through the underbrush. It was dark in the depths of the forest, the sky obscured completely, but he could sense the moon rising high on his right. He was running North. 

As he ran, Harry noticed that this forest felt much different than the boreal and deciduous forest of Northern Europe he had grown so accustomed to. No, this forest was soaked, smelled of rain and growth and the trees sprawled like giants up to the sky and across stretches of earth, buttressed roots forming high walls and caverns of their own. It was humid beneath their canopy, and mushrooms of many strange colours fruited along decomposing trunks, long since fallen from the sky to the earth below, reclaimed. 

The forest felt old and undisturbed, like a city unto itself, riotous with life if only you knew where to look and how to listen. Harry heard rustling to his left and a short trumpeting call. The ground shook, and he ran further, slipping away from the grove of forest fig trees and sliding down into a valley below. 

He cleared a dark stream, pulling himself up the opposite bank with ease, his paws sinking into the mud. He paused, sniffing the air. A strange smell lingered. His hackles raised. A growl pooled in this throat. 

Laughter. Cackling laughter. Harry looked up toward the sound to a tall rock jutting out across the edge of the stream. Atop it sat a creature. Stout, round with thin spidery fingers and sharp teeth, its laugh was harsh and disarming. Full of malice. A tokoloshe. 

“They’ll find you here, Grim. Better run fast.” 

The cackling laughter followed him as he took off through the forest, fleeing the sounds of wingbeats and the screeches that followed. 

________________

Harry woke up quickly, sun streaming in through the window and warming the room, the leather jacket long since pulled off in fits of sleep. The dream, however, lingered, as if heavy, images of those sharpened, barred teeth and the great black paws below him refusing to dissipate into the waking world, as dreams are want to do. 

He made his way down the hall to the stairs, pausing at the linen closet, the one he had left nailed shut, his hand trailing over the door, remembering the splinters that he had pulled away along the inside. Come what may, he could not go back. Not to that. He took a deep breath, and jogged down the stairs into the tea room, surprised to hear laughing voices drifting in from the garden. 

Setting his encouragemint and it’s enchanted cloud in the sunny window of the tea room, Harry opened the glass doors to the patio beyond, a grin quick and broad across his face at the sight before him. 

Neville was sitting on the grass, looking up at Hestia, who was calling all the flowers in the West bed to bloom, foxgloves and lavender, sweet little tea roses amidst butterfly bushes, and a large hydrangea blushing pink and blues in the shaded corner beneath a blackthorn tree. A little arbor now housed a flush of jasmine flowers, fragrant and florid in the late summer heat. Neville had on a bit of a dopey expression, chin held in his hand, elbow on his knee, face full of wonder and delight, a shy smile on his lips. A dirt smudge ran across his left cheek, which was blushing a soft pink. 

Hestia, in a long, white summer dress of soft swathes of cotton, was adorned in gold bangles, gold hoop earrings and a crown of purple daisies. She was stunning, as ever, her magic pouring out across the once-neglected city garden, now transformed into a calm and sunlit sanctuary, bees and butterflies now reacquainting themselves with the space. Harry had known they had made a plan to come re-enliven the small yard, but he hadn’t been prepared for it to be so soon. For it to be today. He should have known, however, that the two of them together would make something so beautiful. 

“Good morning, Harry.” She called, not yet opening her eyes, still running her fingertips over the last of the blooming foxglove. Her magic lay around the garden like dew in the first breath of the morning. 

“Hestia. Neville. Tea?” 

Neville seemed to snap out of his trance, dusting his trousers quickly and pulling himself to his feet, his blushing paradoxically deepening. “Yes please. A splash of lemon ginger if you don’t mind. I’ll just finish up with the table and chairs for out here - we can take tea in the garden!” 

Hestia smiled, watching Neville rush off to set up a little wrought iron table and chairs in the corner, dragging them to the little alcove beneath the blackthorn. He conjured a little tablecloth and pulled a chair aside, motioning for Hestia to sit. 

She rolled her eyes at Neville, but smiled and alighted, her amber eyes taking him in the dappled light. 

Harry returned with the tea tray, setting it on the table between the three of them, interrupting Neville’s doe eyed stare and shy giggling. 

Harry drank his tea quickly. It was too much, watching Neville shamelessly flirt and Hestia pretend not to notice, both of them fawning over more plans for the little space, though Harry couldn’t imagine it would hold much more. He zoned out while they discussed where to put the aconite Hestia would use for her wolfsbane, which she brewed herself, and always needed a steady supply nearby. 

He stared into his tea, letting his thoughts wander back to the dream he’d awoken from, their voices blurring in the background as he swirled his cup absentmindedly. 

“Harry, darling.” Hestia’s voice broke through the fog. 

“Hmm?” He looked up at her as she rested a hand gently on his arm, stopping him from nearly spilling the last of his tea. 

“Won’t you be late for Luna’s? It’s nearly 10.” 

“Oh, shit, you’re right. I’m going now. Thanks for the tea and company. I’ll see you both later!” Harry rushed out the words as he jumped up from the little table, turning to head back inside, grab Sirius’s jacket and apparate to therapy. 

He stopped halfway through the door to the tea room, staring back down into the last bit of tea in his cup. He could have sworn the dregs had formed the spectral black dog that had haunted his divination lessons so long ago, but in his haste to confirm the sighting, he swirled the cup again and the image was lost. 

He shook his head, set the cup on the table and rushed out to the front door, eager to see Luna for therapy. 

___________

The hour seemed to have passed in mere moments, Harry barely able to explain how much was crowding his brain, pulling at his thoughts, keeping him overwhelmed and frustrated. How much he wanted everything to be simpler, to be a normal person with a normal job and not an addict on top of everything. 

Luna had been uncharacteristically quiet, aside from praising him to no end for using his resources, for staying sober and for finding his way amongst the chaos. And reassuring him that it was not unusual to slip, to struggle, to fall just a little from the great heights we attain. She had repeated her mantra, that recovery is not linear, and Harry had felt it, for the first time in ages, ring true in his bones. Afterward, she had been gentle and soft, and let him ramble, all of his fears filling the room, deep into the corners. 

“There is a lot to weigh on you at the moment, Harry. It is okay to take the time to reacquaint yourself with how you feel. To be angry, even. And scared.” Her quill, normally so active across the writing pad at her side, was still, the page blank of notes. She looked thoughtful, reflective. It was strange to have a session where she was not pointedly chasing his analysis, challenging him. 

“When will things stop changing? When will I be able to feel like I have solid earth beneath my feet and no one is pulling my world out from under me?” Harry’s voice was quiet, but the silence of the room was amplifying, and he hated the waver in his voice, so obvious to both of their ears. 

She sighed deeply, so uncharacteristically, and shifted in her chair. Harry felt selfish for a moment. Luna was at the cusp of drastic change, as well. 

“It will be okay.” He said, for the both of them. 

Luna smiled, and Harry stood, offering his hand out to her to help her up from the depths of her armchair. She took it, gratefully, and let him pull her to her feet, unbalanced as she was with her new understanding of gravity. 

“Shall we floo?” Luna asked, wearily. She couldn’t apparate, not now in her third trimester.

“Yes, I imagine they’re all there and waiting for us already. No one will want to be late for our first official Grimmauld Place meeting.” Harry helped her over to the fireplace and threw in some powder. 

________

Their first meeting was a resounding success. Luna had taken a backseat and let Hestia lead the session, and she had risen, graciously and gloriously, to the challenge, a new light in their midst. She glowed on her settee, purple daisies still perfectly prim in the forest of her hair. 

She had expertly welcomed the old and the new, ensuring introductions and greetings were made. St. Mungo’s, Dr. Unice Rhoda, to be exact, had referred more clients to the meetings, and the regulars welcomed two more into their midst. 

Joaquin was a shy and gentle soul who had struggled with dreamless sleep and calming draught after a particularly traumatic upbringing in the south of Wales, never having been able to leave the potions while he was a young student at Hogwarts, and only falling deeper into a wormhole of desperate escapism after the war. He, like Dennis, shook ever so slightly under the watchful eyes of the strangers, and Harry silently had sent him courage in the face of all the vulnerability of one’s first meeting, a warm and gentle wave across the room. 

The second attendee was someone Harry had recognised, her face having featured in so many of his nightmares in the early aftermath of the battle. She had been young then, but her countenance was unmistakable. Ginny had comforted Alethea as Harry walked to his death, and he had watched them share that moment together, awash with the pain, desperate for home, for times of peace and comfort. Like Ginny, Alethea had buried the pain in sex. She could not look up at Harry for the entire session, and unlike Joaquin, he held his magic from her, watchful of her boundaries. 

After they had left, and the house was empty again, Harry took another piping cup of tea out into the garden, steam rising as the sun fell in the Western sky. He sat at the little table where Neville and Hestia had spent their morning, his hands wrapped around the mug, lost in the same thoughts that had been forming eddies in his mind all day. Thoughts of thestrals and Death Herders, of Dumbledore and lies, of self sacrifice and of healing. Of what he wouldn’t do to keep wizardkind safe. That was the Gryffindor in him, after all.  

And that other thought. The main thought. The one he’d been so avidly avoiding. The thought of Draco. Draco, who was ready to be the chosen one. Ready to do good. To be good. To be part of a destiny. To be rare and to walk into the unknown, the uncharted. 

Harry reflexively recoiled from the thought, shrinking unto himself. He wanted to the exact opposite. To be normal, and boring. To be chosen for nothing and to be beholden to no one but himself. To be given the chance to be in the background, to let others take the reins.  

How cruel it was that they had fallen together so perfectly, had built something soft and kind and lovely between them, to feel as though he had a real chance at happiness. Only to have this, this horrible giant thestral in the room, shoved between them. Harry resented it. He felt trapped by it. If there was one thing he knew, it was that he never wanted to feel like something was not his choice ever again. 

He took a sip of the still scalding tea, burning his tongue, cursing himself, silently.

“I know you’re there.” He said, still looking down into his tea with great contempt. 

A snort behind him, and he felt the hot gust of air ruffle his hair. Harry smiled, not able to help himself, the bitterness falling away as he reached up to pat the skeletal cheek, the winged stallion drooping his head over Harry’s shoulder, nuzzling him. Though he hated to admit it, Harry had missed his spectral creature over the last week. The beast had disappeared after the night he’d left Draco in the foyer, and had left him to his own devices on the moor. 

“Maybe you do let me make my own mistakes, after all.” Harry said softly, the thestral’s ears flicking back, listening as Harry rubbed the leathery skin beneath his eyes. 

“Come on, flea, I need an early night tonight.” Harry stood, and the two of them ambled inside, Harry giving the encouragemint a quick rub before trudging upstairs and falling into bed and, before long, into a deep sleep. 

_____________

He was running again, big paws landing in the tall grass that seemed to stretch out into the horizon like an ocean, waving gently in the night breeze, stars bright across the sky. There was no moon. 

A cackle sounded in the dark ahead. Then another. Loud, high pitched whooping, chorusing, howling and crying into the night, interspersed with the eerie laughter. Harry stopped, the cacophony of sounds coming ever closer, arising on all sides, the tall grass rustling, perhaps with more than just the wind. The smell of blood filled the air. 

To his left, a dark figure emerged, hunched, with rounded ears, it scooted through the patch of starlight and back into the tall grass. Another form followed. Then, on his right, two more creatures emerged, Harry catching glances of their spotted fur, their sloping spines. The giggling laughter and howling calls were growing ever louder, drowning out any other sounds of the night. Harry could hardly breathe for the smell of blood and rotten flesh was thick and purulent in the air. 

Just in front of him, a form slipped between the grasses, taking shape. A hyaena, the head of a wildebeest lodged between gaping jaws, the spine, still articulated, dragging behind her as she waddled ahead, her stomach grotesquely swollen with their kill. She slipped alongside Harry without giving him a second glance, the vertebrae dragging through the earth at his feet.

Harry stood frozen as the clan surged around him, the forty or fifty members calling to each other, laughing into the night, some of them shining with blood in the starlight, others carrying trophies back to their den, all of them full with fresh meat and raucous in their celebrating. 

As their calls fade behind Harry and the smell of blood disappears on the wind, he finally moves again, heading off into the night. Ever onwards, ever North. 

___________

August 20, 2009 

Harry sat in the tea room, slowly picking at muesli and yoghurt with bananas and strawberries, a glass of orange juice on his left. He had awoken from another night full of dreams, thick and molten, like memories, all of which refused to fade in the light of a new day. 

He sighed, leaning back and sipping his juice as a large barn owl swooped in the open door, dropping a letter in his lap, the molten wax seal emblazoned with the insignia of the ministry. 

Harry glanced down at the letter a moment, unsure if he was ready to face whatever it was the ministry was haranguing him about in the early hours of a Thursday morning. He flipped the letter over to find the absolute afront of “Mr. Harry James Potter, the Tea Room, 12 Grimmauld Place” in a sloping and fanciful script. 

He snorted, ripping open the expensive envelope and unfurling the parchment inside. 

 

_ Harry, _

 

_ I hope this letter finds you well. I have been meaning to write since I read Mr. Dennis Creevey’s article in the Daily Prophet featuring the memorial you and he designed for Colin. I think it is wonderful, what you’re doing, and I was hoping I could enlist your help.  _

_ I want to honour Fred. And George.  _

_ Please, help me do so. _

 

_ Yours,  _

_ Percy Ignatius Weasley _

_ Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot _

 

Harry pushed his muesli aside, all other thoughts dissipating in the light of what he must do, and headed up to his work room, not to be disturbed for the remainder of the day. 

______________

August 23, 2009

By Sunday, Harry had drafted his plans for the twin’s monument. He had contracted a supplier, and a wide slab of sneezewood lay across his work table, a grin playing on his face. Sneezewood was so named because of the irritating oils that escaped the wood as it was worked, making the carver sneeze uncontrollably. It was a beautiful timber, and prized for xylophone keys, the perfect mix between playful and mischievous. 

Harry ran his hands across the wood, dusting away some shavings, feeling the grain beneath his palms. He had carved a hyaena for Fred, the little spotted semblage of his patronus, rolling in the grass, laughing at the sun, full of joy. At the other end of the slab, he had crafted a coyote, one that howled and yipped and called for his brother. Both of the creatures longed for their pack, often meeting in the middle of the wood, rolling and snapping around each other, the love between them plain. Brothers. 

Harry pulled the cloth he had tied around his mouth and nose away, stepping back and taking his first true break in days. He had skipped meetings, even his lunch date with Ron and Hermione, to stay working. He had felt unendingly called to answer Percy’s simple, but poignant, letter. To make something just as joyful and witty as the twins, something that could hold the grief that their loss had created. To fill the wound they had left behind. To bind it with their laughter, their carefree smiles. To honour them. 

Harry sipped at his long cold tea, his heart full, but the days of unending, single minded work wearing at him. He stifled a yawn, then a sneeze, waving his hand with a soft laugh to clear that last remnants of the wood dust. 

He yawned again, overcome with the bone-weary tiredness that had nipped at his heels all afternoon, often fighting for dominance with the pangs of guilt Harry felt deep within his gut each time he looked at the corner of the workbench where Draco had found him that morning, the morning they had found out why the thestrals followed them. The morning Draco had made him come, but then everything had changed. 

Harry huffed a sigh and rubbed his eyes, pushing his hair from his forehead, laying back on the small settee in the corner. 

Every time he thought of reaching out to Draco, he recoiled. He had started several letters, only to crumple them up and throw them into the fire. Draco, they’d always start, I nearly relapsed from the stress. Ron had to come collect me on an abandoned hillside with a bottle of Jameson. I’m a wreck. Again. I don’t have any control over my life, and I don’t want to drag you into the nightmare I’ve been in. Plus, I’m having the weirdest dreams. Then, without fail, they’d end with something like, but I miss you and I have not been able to stop thinking how you got me off and I want that every day until I die. Please don’t abandon me. 

Nothing was appropriate to say. Nothing sounded right. Nothing was the full truth, yet fair to Draco. Harry flipped over onto his stomach and groaned into the silver decorative pillow. Trapped. Again. And he let sleep wash over him. 

__________

In a forest again, large black paws slowly stalking the edge of the shadows that flickered around the clearing ahead. A voice called out. 

“Show yourself, Grim.” 

And the paws morphed into hands, and he was a man, his bare feet padding into the glen, the firelight ricocheting off his flesh. Harry approached the man who had spoken, thick and heavy, black skin painted with white ornamentation. A string of bones around his neck, a thick skin across his shoulders. 

Harry held out his right hand in greeting, his left supporting his outstretched elbow. Harry looked down at their hands meeting, surprised to see his skin marked with tattoos. Runes and dark bands. 

“I am no Grim.” Harry’s voice was hoarse with disuse, but oddly familiar. 

The man laughed, deep and hearty, throwing his head back, the bones around his neck glinting in the firelight. 

“A snake is still a snake, no matter what you call him. His venom is no less, nor the speed at which he will kill. You are a Grim. It is in your blood.” 

The man sat at the edge of a fire on a wooden stump, his round stomach snug between his legs. 

“Why aren’t you afraid?” Harry’s voice was rough, like gravel. 

“Death comes for us all, Grim. You are just a messenger.” 

“I am not a Grim. That is just a story.” Harry felt anger rise in him.

“Mm. We are all just stories, somewhere.” The man’s smile was wide and bright in the dark. 

_______

Harry awoke suddenly, the sliver of the moon high in the sky beyond the window of his work room. 

“Sirius.” He gasped, to no one in particular. The house was silent. 

__________

September 1, 2009

It took Harry a full week to bring up his dreams to Hermione. It was a bad habit of his, pretending his nights weren’t haunted, weren’t filled with messages from ethereal and unnerving places. And Hermione, he knew, would be full of questions, overwhelming in her quest for understanding. She’d ask him things he couldn’t answer. She’d want details he wouldn’t recall. 

So, it was one week later at Rose’s second birthday party, that he pulled her aside, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly with one hand while he shuffled about, his eyes on his feet. 

“Harry?” Hermione tilted his chin up so he would look at her. 

“I think Sirius was a Grim.” There. It was out. That was that. 

Hermione was silent. Her eyebrows were drawn together. Her mouth was half open, as if she was on the verge of saying no Harry, of course he couldn’t be. But the words didn’t come. 

“I think Sirius was a Grim, and I think Dumbledore was keeping him in Grimmauld Place because of it. Because he wanted to use him, as a Death Herder would. I think he trapped him there with blood magic. That’s why the house was so full of it. Why it took me so long to…” But, Hermione was already off, running back into the house, calling over her shoulder that she’d need to check her personal library. 

Harry slumped back against the table, relieved to have told her, but still fraught with the implications, with the possibilities that were unfolding. Secrets and lies, indeed. He looked down at a gentle tugging on his hand. Rose was reaching up to hold his two fingers in her tiny grasp. She had a sippy cup to her mouth in one hand and was pointing a stick at the pile of presents, levitating one. 

Harry smiled down at her, happy to hold her hand and enjoy the joyful simplicity of the moment, a place so far removed from the complicated mess his life had become. 

That was, until he felt the familiar swirl of magic around him, a panicked and startled wave, cold and unfettered. He looked up to catch Draco’s equally as startled gaze. He opened his mouth, eager to apologise, to explain, to fix what he had done. To undo the time and space he’d built between them. But it was too late, Draco had turned on the spot and was gone. 

 


	17. Stranger at the Door

September 01, 2009

The sounds that drifted into the dusty bedroom window were different than Draco was used to. Hogsmeade was softer on his ears compared to the restless bustle of ambient noise that permeated his flat in London. Under normal circumstances, he would find the quiet soothing to his jangled nerves, but no, these were not normal circumstances. Instead, the deepening silence of the coming night descended on Draco like a suffocating blanket.

Draco had spent the last 20 days balancing on a knive's edge, and now, now felt like his breaking point. He was hunched at his little desk in his little one room flat above his new practice. It should all be new and exciting, but instead, it felt off. It didn’t feel like home. He felt like he was losing whatever tenuous grip he had on his sanity as he sat at this unfamiliar desk in this unfamiliar flat, frantically scribbling on post-it after post-it. The corner of the room looking like a rainbow flurry of crumpled paper.

He had picked up writing on post-its again after Harry had asked for space and disapparated without an explanation. He went to Beatrice in a state of near hysteria when he hadn’t heard from Harry after three days. She encouraged Draco to go back to this tried and tested method of self soothing. He bought out the entire section of muggle stationary at his nearest office supply shop when he left her rooms.

Draco remembered when he used to carry one or two meaningful messages, carefully and neatly folded in his pocket to reassure himself throughout the day when he was struggling.

Then, for a while he carried Harry’s letters and talisman to keep his heart strong. But now, his pockets were crammed with crumpled paper covered in illegible handwriting. He couldn’t spare a single moment for careful folding or considerate placement, and as soon he managed to write something halfway intelligible he shoved it into his pocket in the hopes that it might keep him from drowning.

And, he couldn’t stop. If he stopped, he would have to face his sudden and new life with all these new responsibilities and monikers and the silence of a world without Harry. And, no, he just couldn’t do that. Not yet.

He was falling apart, he reasoned maniacally to himself as he scratched out another pointless phrase of hopeful cheer before squeezing it in his hand, feeling the sharp edges of the neon paper bite into his skin. He tossed it over his shoulder, not caring where it landed, before starting the process over again.

 _I love my life_ he wrote, and scoffed, before throwing it aside.

 _Things will get better_ he tried again, before tossing that one behind him as well.

 _Existence is a fucking joke._ Yes. This. And, he stuck it to the wall in front of him.

Ever since Harry had walked into his life, he had been falling apart. This man who repeatedly took him apart and put him back together. Who gave him grand romantic gestures and then left him, seething and alone. Who asked for him to be in his future and then asked for space.

Draco had replayed that entire day’s events in his head over and over and over again, trying to see where he could have done better. Where he could have behaved differently. What was it about him that drove Harry off? He knew, logically, that this wasn’t about him, that Harry really did have some hard choices to make, that he needed to think over on his own. But, the fact that he didn’t want Draco around stung more with each passing day.

He felt less and less sure about their relationship. Is that even what they were? Were they in a relationship? Or was Draco something Harry was merely interested in on his good days? Not privy to help him in his struggles. _Why would he be able to help?_ Draco thought bitterly to himself, _when he has Granger and Weasley back?_ He doesn’t actually need Draco for anything anymore. Fangs from poisonous childhood insecurities sank deeper, and Draco let them.

Ron and Hermione had been so kind and empathetic to Draco’s poor attempts to conceal his distress over Harry. When he had finally broken and asked them if they’d heard from him, Ron had said, in kind and gentle tones, that when Harry needed him, he’d come to him, and, until then, to just trust him and give him the space he’d asked for.

Draco had wanted to hex Weasley, and then cry into his stupid orange t-shirt, the git.

He threw his pen away from himself in frustration, running his fingers through his hair, feeling as though he might burst through his skin with fire or electricity. He felt clammy and sweaty, and he could hear the buzzing of thousands of bees in the deep corners of his mind. Closing his eyes, fingers still threading through his blonde locks, he tried desperately not to think of Rose’s birthday party. The one he had fled from mere hours ago. The scenes kept filtering back to him, no matter how many stupid pieces of paper he scribbled across.

He needed bigger post-its, that’s what it was. Reaching to his left, he pulled a squeaky drawer and grabbed an economy sized pad of post-its, a new pen and began scribbling. Not bothering to close the drawer, his teased hair standing on end from his haphazard ministrations.

Yes, this would make it better, he was sure of it.

 _I’m trying to like who I’m becoming._ He scribbled the words, half script half print, letters joined together in his rush to convince himself of the content. He placed the slightly larger yellow square besides the others on the wall in front of him. Perhaps he could wall paper the entire flat, he thought to himself, bitterness finding equal footing with resignation.

 _I’m not useless, I can be used as an example of what not to do with one’s life._ He smirked self deprecatingly, and placed it too on the wall, trying to block out the whirlpool of thoughts. Thoughts about that morning. About the past. About the future. Thoughts about Harry and death and all the work he had put in to recover. To make progress.  

 _This is an abnormal amount of bullshit._ He jotted with a flourish, placing it highest above the rest.

Someone from the outside may say that Draco was having a breakdown, but Draco knew he was doing _just fine,_ thank you very much. This was all _perfectly okay_ . He and his post-its were really doing this coping thing well. Recovery. Yep, that’s what this was. _Recovery_.

He got up, needing to move through some of his pent up energy. Kicking through a mound of colorful paper on the floor, he stomped over the kitchen, making the whole room rattle. He decided to himself that a cup of tea would be _wonderful_. Something warm and soothing, something to still the writhing snakes in his core. He boiled the kettle and, while he waited for the tea to steep, he prodded the charmed cloud over his encourage-mint on its new drab window sill. He noted with regret that in his frantic anxiety of the last three weeks, he had rubbed a bald spot in the center of his plant, and, even now, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from touching it apologetically.

With a hot cup of mint tea in hand, he turned to survey his new home, letting the fragrant vapors curl around his face as he inhaled it gratefully. He hated it. Not the tea, the tea was life-giving. He hated his flat.

Everything, from the walls, to the ceiling, to the floors, and countertops, was a muted and insipid wood tone. It was one monotonous heap of dull browns and washed out greys. Hermione had given him some yellow curtains in an effort to brighten up the space, but all it did was depress him more. He felt like a prisoner in a Hufflepuff’s garden shed. But, it was all he and Hermione could find on such short notice, and the downstairs had been perfect for his practice space. But really, brown.

Sure, he hadn’t needed to move in as soon as he did, but he had been agitated waiting endlessly for Harry, and he had thought a change would do him good.

It didn’t.

The dirty tones and drab dullness of his new life reflected how he felt about his existence at the moment. His brand new bed in the corner felt too big for him, and for the flat itself. The appliances were mustard yellow enamel that seemed on the verge of crapping out at any moment, and the sink sputtered unevenly when he ran the tap. All of the floorboards creaked, all of them, and he’d given himself three splinters since moving in. Even his thestral didn’t want to spend time here, he thought balefully. Voileami had only appeared twice this week, and he was used to her being a near constant presence.

Perhaps, he would have felt more excited about opening his new practice and facing the world as a newly minted death omen, if Harry had been standing beside him. But, as it was, he was on his own. The story of his life, it seemed.

Hermione and Ron had insisted that Draco come to the party earlier that day, since all of their friends would be there, and they both seemed suspiciously keen to reacquaint him with the entire Weasley clan. Hermione had even quietly reassured him that Harry had been keeping to himself and was unlikely to make an appearance.

Ron had met him at the front door and made introductions to everyone in the house on their way to the back garden, his arm slung around Draco’s shoulders, brooking no argument from him, or anyone else for that matter. Ron had kept shoving sweets and pies and other various baked goods at Draco, prattling on about learning to cook and keeping everyone fed. Something about camping. No need to fight. Ron talked a lot with his mouth full.

He should have felt grateful for the very Gryffindor welcome, but instead, Draco felt sweaty and nauseous, waiting for someone to spit on him. He had gripped the fistful of ratty post-its in his pocket the entire time. It had been reduced to a ball of moist paper after merely twenty minutes of light socializing.

The worst part of the whole ordeal was that everyone seemed to treat Draco like a part of the group. The family. When Molly pulled him into a crushing hug and thanked him for being so kind to her Harry, he wanted to scream and run. At least Ron had the decency to look embarrassed, cheeks full of courser sausage, but Hermione’s pitying eyes made him want to puke. He was eventually led towards the back garden, to where most of the guests were mingling in the bright afternoon sun. Dozens of children ran screaming in circles, some laughing, others falling and crying, toddlers crawled under tables, and there was an air of general chaos that is so common in children’s birthday parties.

After saying hello to a few more people, they rounded the garden and, well, there he was.

Of course he was there. In all his stupid glory, leaning against the picnic table, all haphazard and gorgeous, with a giggling Rose at his feet. Potter, in his stupid leather jacket, with his stupid hair, and his stupid glasses, and his stupid _scar_ , as if he had not a care in the world. He was going to _kill_ Hermione.

When Harry looked up and his green eyes landed on him, Draco’s blood ran hot and delirious, and he had to resist the urge to crush the paper cup in his hand. He felt his nostrils flare with his sharp inhale, and knew he must be turning a lovely shade of rage-red.

Harry had looked surprised for only a moment upon seeing him, before Draco had turned on his heels and walked straight back into the house. He had stomped, really. The burrow rattled and swayed at his conviction. At his anger.   

Draco had made it all the way to the front door, pulled it open and crossed the front yard, breathing heavily, sweat breaking out across his whole body, the urge to destroy something beautiful at the tips of his fingers, flighty and persistent, when he had heard Harry’s familiar low call from behind him. The sound had halted him, affixed him to that patch of ground, time spinning effortlessly around him, as if mocking him for thinking he could escape the low rumble of Harry’s voice, as if he could flee from it, as if it didn’t pour along every inch of his skin, settle in every woven thread of his bones.

How he hated how easily he responded to that sound. He loathed it. He turned to see Harry slipping out the front door of the haphazard house, trying to catch up, a look of sheepishness, and possibly regret, etched on his face. Pure and innocent and simple. Like he hadn’t just spent twenty separate days depriving Draco of that resonating rumble. Of his light, his ambrosia, of Draco’s name on his lips. Of that smile. Of the feel of his magic, agonisingly kind and careful as it warmed Draco’s skin. No threat, no warning that it could burn him alive and leave him nothing but ash, in pieces on the wind.

He tore himself away, his ears full of the crack that broke the magic between them.

He had apparated directly into this sad little brown flat and immediately started a three hour marathon of post-it note writing.

Now, sipping the too hot tea, he reflexively reached out to stroke his badgered and balding encourage-mint, the smell doing little to sooth his electric nerves. Every time he thought about Potter chasing after him at the party, he was overcome with another wave of fury and anguish.

How dare Harry, honestly. As if Draco had not spent night after night panicking, crying, worrying, pacing, writing letters only to burn them before sending? Draco’s whole being felt sore and raw as if an infected scab had been repeatedly picked at over days and nights.

A muffled thumping from the front door downstairs startled Draco out of his stewing and he stood frozen, eyes wide, panic mounting. Who the bloody hell was here? He couldn’t let anyone see his flat in this state.

Dear lord, if Luna came to check on him he would have a hell of a time explaining the chaos of rainbow paper covering the floors and walls. The pounding was relentless, echoing through the emptiness of the downstairs lobby and up the rickety wooden stairs to his attic flat.

He took a fortifying breath and tried to vanish a few heaps of post-its, but in his haste to get to the door, he knew he missed most of them. Coming down the stairs and reaching the front entrance, he pushed his wild hair out of his face and yanked open the door.

The sight of Harry standing at his front door in ratty jeans and his leather jacket, a box in his arms, and large, apologetic eyes was enough to knock the wind out of Draco. He stood there, nostrils flared, eyes wide, and eyebrows so high he knew they were lost in his hairline. He was at a complete loss, there were no words. Twenty days of nothing, and now this?

“I know you’re angry-” Harry started, and Draco slammed the door in his face with a satisfying, rattling thud.

He huffed an incredulous breath, nearly hyperventilating with shock and anger, his palm flat on the slab of cheap pine in front of him, steadying himself. His eyes were impossibly wide. The _audacity_ of Potter.

“Can we talk?” Draco felt the muffled, hopeful voice beneath his hand, and in his disbelieving rage, he wrenched the door back open, breathing hard, ready to throw a hex. Or a punch. Harry seemed unsure of himself, shuffling from one foot to the next, and despite Draco’s ire, a flicker of endearment broke through at the sight of a rumpled Harry Potter on his doorstep. Draco was weak. He hated it, but he was.  

“Three weeks, Potter!” Draco shouted, and Harry winced.

“I’m sorry, Draco, really-” He tried, looking helpless, but so eager. He had dark circles under his eyes, and Draco could see a few white hairs in his stubble that weren’t there before.

“THREE WEEKS.” He bellowed. “I know you had things to _figure out_ , and wanting space is PERFECTLY RREASONABLE," his voice cracked with incredulity, getting louder with each syllable, “but _nothing_ ? For _three weeks_?!” Soon only bats would be able to hear Draco’s shrill crescendo.

Harry didn’t try to speak this time, he had an embarrassed and constipated look on his face.

“What?! You’re all fine again, so you want to talk, _now?!”_ Draco demanded, gesticulating nonsensically.

“Can I please come in? I want to apologize properly. I- I’ve really missed you.”

Draco’s nostrils flared so wide he was surprised flames hadn’t erupted from them, his mouth drawing down into a tight line and he was sure his eyes were large enough to put him in mind of Little Dipper, “You _missed me?”_ his voice was dripping with disbelief. “Ever heard of a fucking _owl?!_ I do believe you HAVE ONE. _”_

Harry just looked at him pleadingly with those too-green eyes and raw vulnerability that always seemed to rip Draco open.

Unable to formulate any words after a long and tense silence, he rolled his eyes in defeat and stepped aside to let Harry in, internally kicking himself for how quickly his resolve had broken. Harry seemed relieved that the door hadn’t been slammed in his face a second time, and Draco’s stomach lurched with a thousand unnamed emotions as he closed the door and led Harry upstairs.

It was suddenly quiet. Too quiet.

“So…” Harry said, following closely behind Draco, clearly reaching for something light to break the tension, “is this your new space?”

Draco nodded stiffly, his limbs shaky with adrenaline, as they reached the top of the stairs. He felt a fresh flush of embarrassment as he scanned the room. The bed was unmade, there were dishes in the sink, he had pants on the floor, and most distressing of all, he still had hundreds of post-its littered across the floor and stuck haphazardly to the wall. It felt exposing for Harry to see the evidence of his struggles. To see how Draco had coped in his absence. That his absence had had such a profound effect on him.

The vulnerability made Draco angrier.

“This is nice.” He said softly, gesturing vaguely to the flat, eyes lingering on Draco’s desk a fraction too long.

Draco didn’t respond, he was filled with too many things to respond. Anger, yes. But also profound relief at Harry alive and well in front of him. That his nightmares of Harry dead in an alleyway hadn’t come to fruition. That he hadn’t run off with someone else to help him through his emotional turmoil as his boggart insisted. The combination roiled in his stomach, bile rising in his throat. He turned and stomped to the kitchen, rattling the windows as he went, and started the kettle for tea.

Harry let out a huge sigh, setting his box on the floor by the door, and walked slowly towards Draco as if approaching a dangerous animal.

When the kettle whistled, Draco busied himself with the familiar reflex of preparing tea. Letting the series of movements distract him from Harry standing far too close. His magic radiating out, curling around Draco’s frame.

Carefully setting down the teapot and cups onto the tray and arranging all the necessary pieces, he finally turned to face a patiently waiting Harry, whose eyes watched Draco closely.

Draco cocked a single brow in question, still not trusting himself to speak.

Harry scrubbed his hand over his face, stealing himself, seeming unsure.

“Thank you, for giving me space.” He finally said, looking sincere. The bastard. “I should have let you know how I was sooner.”

Draco shrugged. Feigning an indifference he didn’t feel. He had never felt indifferent about Potter.

Harry sighed again. “I know it was a lot to ask, but I am really grateful. It’s been a really rough few weeks- I mean, it hasn’t been easy.” He paused, seeming unsure how to continue. “And I was feeling too embarrassed by how I acted to reach out again, even though I really, really wanted to talk to you. Desperately.”

Draco’s gaze shot up, feeling a little called out. Hadn’t Draco done the same thing to Harry all those months ago?

“I still don’t know what to do about being a death omen.” He said, and the small bit of relief Draco had allowed himself to feel upon Harry’s reappearance evaporated.

“But,” He continued, seeing the defeat in Draco’s face, “I do know, that I want to be with you.”

Elation and confusion warred inside Draco and he still had no words to offer Harry.

“And, if I want to be a Death Herder?” Draco asked, finally finding his voice after a long silence.

“Then, you should be. Hell, at least one of us should be.”

“It isn’t going to bother you if your partner is an omen of death? I thought you wanted a normal life? A boring life? Nothing about me is normal or boring, Potter. Is that really what you want?” Draco pushed, intentionally dramatic.

“Potter still, huh?” He cocked a disarming smile.

Draco rolled his eyes and turned back to the tea tray. Picking it up he pushed past Harry and walked it to the low coffee table in front of the small sofa on the opposite wall.

Sitting down, he began fixing Harry’s tea, just as he liked it. Too much milk and not enough honey. A small smile curved Harry’s mouth as he sat down next to Draco and took the flippantly proffered cup.

They sat in silence, sipping their hot earl grey, uncertainty hanging around their shoulders.

Harry put his half drunk cup town and turned to face Draco. “I know there’s nothing normal about you or this situation. There’s never been anything normal about you, and I wouldn’t ask you to give this up. But, that’s just it, I always thought I’d be the one to say this in a relationship, that I’m too difficult, too broken. But, I’m just as fucked up and complicated as you are. I can handle your sharp edges, your darkness. And, you can handle mine.” Draco was staring into his tea, refusing to look up, letting Harry’s words wash over him.

“Draco, I don’t want to do this without you. These last weeks have been hell. I don’t want fate, or destiny, or to be told what I must do, but you, I want you. I want to choose you. I want you in my life. I just didn’t want to drag you down as I fall.”

“Are you going to leave me to stew in my own worry, for weeks on end, every time something happens? I want to be there when you fall, you pillock.” Draco retorted sharply. He knew he was being unfair. Harry was saying all the things he wanted to hear, but he was too afraid to have. It felt too easy after the turmoil of the last month.

Harry deflated. “Draco- I’m sorry... I can’t promise it won’t happen again, but I do promise that I won’t shut you out like that anymore. It wasn’t fair.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Draco agreed loudly. He seemed to be struggling with volume control, and he averted his eyes. “I’ve been so-” he cut himself off, not wanting to tell Harry just how pathetically distraught he had been.

Harry glanced past him towards his desk at the explosion of paper, and Draco knew he understood. Understood that Draco had been holding on by a thread. That he cared so deeply and profoundly for Harry’s wellbeing and boundaries that he spent his waking moments doing anything he could to keep himself sane while respecting Harry’s wishes for space.

Harry reached a tentative hand out, and Draco resisted all instincts to pull away. He wasn’t ready to let go of his anger.

Harry took Draco’s cup and set it aside, and Draco reluctantly allowed his hand to scooped up and held tightly by achingly familiar fingers. Calloused and dry. Gentle and firm.

Draco looked into Harry’s searing gaze and knew the battle was lost. Stupid Potter, with his kind _eyes_ and his nice _smile._ He hated how weak Harry made him. His shoulders drooped and he squeezed Harry’s hands back, a quiet surrender.

Casting about for something else to talk about to quell the rise of emotions in his throat, Draco’s eyes landed on the box that Harry had dropped by the door.

“What’s in the box?”

“Oh.” Harry said, looking a bit caught out, unsure of himself. “Uh, well. See, so you know how Grimmauld Place is holding meetings now, and it’s always so full of people, and I was feeling cramped at Ron and Hermione’s, so-“ he trailed off, seeing the amused smirk on Draco’s face.

“So, you thought you’d just pitch up and stay here, after three weeks of silence?” He said, unable to keep the fond exasperation from his voice.

“Well, I was hoping you wouldn’t be terribly opposed to seeing me, yes.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Draco stated.

Harry smiled shyly, bringing Draco’s hand up to his mouth and kissing the knuckles. Draco was fucked.

After tea and cleaning up, Harry hovered awkwardly in the kitchen, seemingly unsure where he should settle himself. Where he would be sleeping. His eyes flickering between Draco’s unmade bed and the tiny sofa.

Draco hid his smile as he went to change in the bathroom, deciding to let Harry dangle for a while. When he came out a few minutes later, Harry hadn’t moved from his spot in the kitchen, but he had stripped down to his black pants and white t-shirt, the sight erasing all rational thoughts from Draco’s mind.

“So, do you have an extra blanket I can use for the sofa?” He asked carefully, casually, just as Draco was climbing into bed.

Draco eyed him for a moment from under his fluffy cocoon of blankets, considering him. He lifted up the edge of the blanket in a clear invitation. Harry looked surprised and hesitated.

“Come on, then.” Draco sighed, feeling overcome with nerves, excitement and relief.  

Harry’s face mirrored Draco’s feelings and he stepped lightly on bare feet over to the bed and gingerly slid under the covers. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before scooting in close and wrapping an arm around Draco, lazily waving a hand to put the lights out.

“Show off.” Draco grumbled as he nuzzled in as close to Harry as he could, not able to control how needy he felt once the lights were out. He was like a starved animal and Harry’s touch was his sustenance. Draco allowed himself to melt into him in the darkness of the room, under the heavy duvet. The painful ache he had been carrying all these long nights seemed to dissolve under the weight of Harry’s body pressed against his. Both holding tight, seemingly afraid that the other might disappear at any moment.

“You like it.” Harry said lightly, as he held Draco tight, breathing deeply into his neck.

Draco huffed and felt a sudden surge of prickling in the corner of his eyes. He was _not_ going to cry. He refused. Harry had seen too much of Draco’s rawness, of his vulnerability. He couldn’t have this as well.

But he was here, and he was safe, and he was choosing Draco. He was afraid of the relief that came with those thoughts.

“We have a lot to talk about, Harry, if this is going to work.” He said gruffly. Trying to keep his voice even, to hold the tears back.

Harry was quiet as he rubbed soothing circles on Draco’s back. He didn’t say anything about the growing wetness on his shoulder or the soft sniffing coming from Draco, just pulled him closer and considered his words.

“Like I said, I want you. I want us to be together. This is a choice that I want to make for myself because you make me happy and feel whole. And I’ve fought so hard for this. For us. I don’t want to give it up.”

“But, how is that going to work if I’m spending all my time focusing on the thestrals and what they need from us- me.” He corrected.

“I - I can give you space when you need it.” He said carefully, reluctantly. “I just don’t know if I want the expectation and responsibility that comes with this kind of deep magic. It makes me feel like I’m starting back at square one. In the aurors. On assignment. Now with even more death.”

Draco snorted indelicately. “Harry, I don’t think it’s about doing the bidding of unforeseen forces, or the ministry, or anyone else. I think we were chosen for who we are and what we want to do without our magic. I think it’s about just being ourselves and letting the healing come from that. Are the thestrals forcing you to make monuments to the dead against your will? Are you being coerced into helping others at meetings? Do you not want to do either of those things?” Draco asked.

Harry was quiet for a long time, and if it weren’t for the continuous movement of his hands on Draco’s back, he would have thought he had fallen asleep. “Well, when you put it that way.” Harry said quietly, after a long while.

“I’m very intelligent.” Draco said into Harry’s shoulder, his voice still thick, still holding himself back. His throat was sore from the sobs he wouldn’t let escape.

“That you are.” Harry said, rolling onto his back and pulling Draco to lay on his chest. Draco hiked his leg up across Harry’s body and curled around him. Letting the feeling of Harry's hands in his hair and the light touches to his arm sooth the rise of emotion flooding his insides.

“What do _you_ want in all of this?” Harry asked, in his softest voice yet.

The question tore at something in him. Broke his flimsy grip on composure he had managed since leaving Grimmauld Place. He couldn’t stop the sob that erupted from him.

His body shook with silent tears as he clung to Harry. The stress of not knowing for weeks washing over his wrecked frame. Harry squeezed him tightly planting soft kisses into his hair. It was too much. Too kind. Too sweet. Too everything, after so much pain. He couldn’t stop himself from crying like a besotted fool into Harry’s chest.

Harry was softly touching him all along his arms and sides, running his fingers across Draco’s leg that was laid across his midsection. “I was so fucking worried.” He finally said after his halting sobs subsided into deep measured breathing.

“I know.” Harry said, remorse evident in his voice.

“What I want…” Draco said hesitantly at first, raising himself up on his elbows to look at Harry, the last of his tears drying on his face “is for us to stop running from things.” He finished, more loudly than he had intended.

Harry nodded, his face just barely visible in the dark, “Okay-”

Whatever else Harry had intended on saying was lost as Draco, overcome with a desperate urge to be closer, kissed him hard.

Harry was startled for only a moment before responding with equal vigour. His lips parting under Draco’s insistence, the slide of Harry’s tongue against his own melting the last of Draco’s reservations.

He pulled back, sat up and pulled his shirt over his head, breathing heavy.

“Draco, we don’t have to do this.” Harry said, his breathing uneven, his voice strained with effort.

“I want this. I _need_ this, Harry. Please.” The last word sounded desperate. He wanted Harry to know that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he really wanted this. _Him_. For himself, for them.

Harry studied him in the dark for a moment, taking deep, steadying breaths. Sitting up he pulled his own shirt from over his head and tossed it aside. He reached out to pull Draco’s mouth against his. The relief Draco felt as he laid himself on top of Harry’s bare chest, settling between his legs, and pressing against his lips, was profound. Nearly frightening.

He ran his fingers through Harry’s hair, gripping it too tightly when Harry rolled his hips underneath him, and a current of electricity fluttered up Draco’s spine.

He moaned into the kiss and Harry drank him in, running his hands over Draco’s body, migrating slowly down, stopping only to appreciate the dimples on his lower back.

Draco couldn’t seem to touch enough of Harry, he was burning up with the need. His hands moved in time with their hurried kissing from the hard muscles of his arms to the long stretch of skin down his side, his thumb dipping gingerly below the waistband of his black pants.

Seemingly unable to restrain himself any longer, Harry gripped Draco’s ass with strong demanding hands, and with exquisite precision he lined their now hard cocks up against one another, trapped behind the fabric of their thin pants. They both moaned into the sensation and Harry arched up into it, seeking more friction. Draco gave it to him, kissing down his jaw and neck, tasting the sweat on his collar bone, rutting languidly against Harry.

“Draco, can I-” Harry panted, “Can I try something?” his fingers hooked into the waistband of Draco’s pants.

“Uh, yeah- yes.” Draco acquiesced, feeling elation and apprehension. Fueled with a need for release and strung tight with a desire for Harry’s hands on him.

Harry deftly rolled Draco onto his back and carefully, lovingly kneeled above him, his hands on Draco’s hips. “Can I take these off?” He asked, his voice uneven.

“Yes.” Draco replied, feeling weak in the knees, letting his head fall back on the pillow. Fighting those pervasive instincts to run. He wanted whatever Harry wanted to give him.

Draco lifted his bum off the bed as Harry gently pulled the fabric down from his waist. Leaving him naked and bare for the first time under Harry’s gaze.

“Yours too.” Draco croaked, lifting his head again. Harry huffed a nervous laugh and swiftly pulled his pants down and off, revealing a similar state of arousal. The sight forced a pitiful sound of _need_ out of Draco’s throat and Harry carefully lowered himself over Draco, slowly kissing a trail from his jaw down his chest.

Draco tried his best to lay back and accept the lavish affection Harry peppered across his skin, but he couldn’t be still. He huffed quietly, trying not to moan at the feeling of Harry’s lips on him. He ran his fingers through Harry’s hair, raked his nails down his arms, and squirmed underneath him, seeking friction. He could feel the small smile on Harry’s face. He was going slowly on purpose, Draco knew, trying to elicit more of the moans of desperation that Draco was hesitant to let out.

When his mouth reached Draco’s hip bone and he sucked lightly on the skin, he finally, finally wrapped his hand lightly around his aching cock. Draco let out the moan he had been stifling for long minutes. That seemed to be all the encouragement Harry needed, as he languidly stroked Draco’s cock, settling himself between his spread legs and planting wet kisses to his inner thigh, his heaving breath ghosting across Draco’s skin.

Draco was lost in the sensation. It was both too much and not enough, not nearly enough, but he was afraid to ask for more. He was hot and cold all over, and his entire existence had narrowed down to the feeling of Harry between his legs, his mouth so near his cock and that hand moving so slowly up and down his shaft, his thumb casually swiping across the head.

Draco’s knuckles were white as he gripped the sheets, trying desperately to still his hips that seemed to be moving of their own accord, fucking into Harry’s hand. “Please.” He whimpered, unsure for what exactly he was asking for. More friction, more anything.

As if answering his plea, Harry slid his hot, wet mouth over the head of Draco’s prick, and he couldn’t stop the surprised, needy groan that erupted from his throat.

Harry torturously, slowly ran his tongue down Draco’s shaft. Each bob of his head taking in more and more, aquanting himself with the sounds and reactions Draco made to each movement.

He was out of his mind with the need to come, with his desire to see Harry come, to fall apart with him. Looking down and seeing Harry, with his eyes fixed on Draco, his lips stretched around him, was a nearly overwhelming sight.

“Harry.” Draco whimpered, unable to stop himself. He instantly hated the loss of contact when Harry stopped.

“Do you like this?” Harry asked shyly, licking a broad tongue up the underside.

“Nnngh” Draco affirmed incoherently, his eyes going wide.

“What about this?” He asked, taking Draco in his mouth as far as he could, slowly, teasingly.

“Fuck.” Draco whimpered, throwing his arm over his eyes. He was dying. In the most excruciatingly beautiful way possible. He felt like he was about to explode into a thousand pieces.

“Mmm.” Harry hummed, sucking gently on the head, softly swirling his tongue around it.

“ _Please.”_ Draco begged again, for what exactly, he didn’t know. He was beyond caring, he just needed the release of this overwhelming tension in his body.

“Tell me what you need, Draco.” Harry asked with a sly smile on his face, slowly working his hand up and down. Just enough pressure to make Draco’s toes curl, but not enough to bring him over the edge. He was starting to feel frantic.

“I- I-” he was struggling to find words. Harry’s hand and mouth were rendering him speechless and incoherent. “I-I, uh, I want you to finish too.” he groaned out.

Harry’s face split into a surprised and pleased smirk. “I’ll finish.”

“How?” He panted, the increased pressure of Harry’s lips pooling heavy in his groin.

Letting Draco’s dick slide back out of his mouth he said smoothly, “I’ll come from just the sight of you… the taste of you.”

“Ngggh” Draco moaned as Harry redoubled his efforts, his mouth working up and down, faster now. Harry had drawn himself up slightly on his elbow, and using his other hand, he reached down and fisted himself as he worked Draco to the edge. The sinful sight of Harry with his mouth wrapped around Draco and his other hand working himself, pushed Draco past the point of no return and he panted out soft breathy moans.

His stomach clenched with his impending release and he tried to warn Harry by calling out his name. Harry, who moaned his encouragement from around Draco’s cock.

Lights erupted from behind Draco’s eyes and his orgasm tore through him with brutal strength as he emptied himself into Harry’s moaning mouth, unable to still his frantically rocking hips. His lips parted in a silent cry as the overwhelming sensation ripped him open. Harry’s fist was flying fast over himself and spilling over Draco’s thigh, a stuttering groan escaping his lips.

Draco’s limbs felt limp and lifeless. Harry coughed slightly and wiped his mouth, before crawling up the bed and wrapping himself around Draco as tightly as he could. Containing him.

They shared a quiet, slow kiss, breathing deeply.

Draco didn’t know how long they laid there kissing but he found himself drifting and heard Harry whispering words like _beautiful_ and _perfect_ as he was wrapped in blankets and held firmly to a strong chest. He felt peaceful for the first time in weeks and began floating off to sleep on the wave of exhaustion that overtook him, surrounded by Harry.

_________

 

Draco swam slowly to wakefulness the next morning. The sounds of the nearby woods and of Harry’s soft, even breaths in his ear were familiar and safe. And, for an aching moment, it put him in mind of Tenebris Hollow, before the memories of the night before came flooding forward.

Harry came back. Harry came to bed with him.  

His eyes shot open and he felt hot all over. Sweat and apprehension pricking his skin. Under cover of darkness, it was easy to be carried away on a wave of lust, longing, and release. But now, in the light of a blinding morning, what must he do? Harry stirred sleepily next to him, reaching an arm out and lazily pulling Draco’s side flush to his chest, not yet opening his eyes. Not realizing how startled Draco felt by the familiarity of it all.

Draco, who could feel the beginnings of an epic battle raging in his insides. Joy at Harry’s return, righteous fury at his long absence. Victory at their progress, embarrassment at his own need.

He took the opportunity to glance at Harry’s placid face resting on his shoulder and collect himself. He was still furious with Harry for leaving him dangling in the wind for three weeks, and even more furious with himself for giving in so quickly at his reappearance. He felt a pervasive fear that this was temporary, that the rug would be pulled out from under him at any moment, that one of them would run again. His inner boggart had begun it’s relentless song and dance. It was far too early in the morning for this.

Draco let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding as he tried to decide what came next.

“Stop panicking.” Came Harry’s gruff voice, hoarse from sleep. His eyes were still closed.

“I am not panicking.” He countered too quickly, his body flushing with another wave of heat and sweat.

“Mhmm.” Harry pandered, squeezing Draco and planting a kiss on his shoulder.

“I’m not.” Draco insisted petulantly, squirming uneasily in Harry’s embrace. He could feel Harry’s mouth smiling against his shoulder, and when he turned his head to look at him he saw two slivers of very green eyes, squinting at him in the morning light streaming in from the curtained window beside the bed.

“I can _literally_ hear your brain working.” He teased in a low voice, releasing Draco to stretch. He huffed indignantly and cursed his body’s overexcited stress response as he watched Harry out of the corn of his eye.

Harry who looked completely at ease, well rested, and beautiful. It knocked the wind out of Draco to see Harry in his bed like this. So comfortable. So normal. He was simultaneously enamored and irritated. How dare Harry be well rested and at ease after the month Draco had. How dare he show up unannounced and let Draco take him to bed. How dare he let Draco fall apart like that. How dare he sleep so peacefully afterwards. How dare he make Draco feel all of these fucking _feelings._ The nerve of him.

He had half a mind to storm out of bed and lock himself in the bathroom, just so he could _breathe_.

His circuitous thoughts for petty revenge were interrupted, however, by a gentle hand on his jaw, turning his face towards a suddenly very serious looking Harry. “We’re not running anymore, remember?”

Draco sighed, the fight bleeding out of him. He looked away.

The fact that Harry knew him so well almost made him _more_ angry. He sat quietly, swirling with a thousand emotions that he couldn’t place, couldn’t organize, couldn’t explain, sweat breaking out across his skin, _again_. It took every last bit of will power he had to not pick a fight. To not lash out irrationally. To not say something crass and hurtful. To not push Harry away. These things were all he could think to do to still the writhing snakes in his stomach. He swallowed hard before looking back at Harry, whose eyes never left him. Considering.

With a heavy tongue, he spoke. “I have a lot of cleaning to do downstairs.” He said finally, _painfully_ , as evenly as humanly possible. It was all he could think to say, lest a volcano erupt from his throat and burn Harry alive.

Harry watched him closely for a long moment, understanding clear in his eyes. “I’ll help.” He stated before squeezing Draco’s hand and smiling easily. Draco couldn’t manage to reciprocate the smile, but he did manage to squeeze Harry’s hand and nod. Baby steps.

Three hours later found Harry, covered in cobwebs and sweat, on his hands and knees in a corner of the downstairs potion’s room, scouring the floor, cursing under his breath. His clothes were smeared in dust and grease, and his hair looked like he’d gone flying in a strong wind. Draco smirked to himself from his vantage point on his new potion brewing bench, as he unpacked and organized ingredients on the shelves. He had decided to take his revenge in a more constructive, Slytherin way.

“Tell me again why we can’t scourgify this?” Harry panted as he scrubbed the large bristle brush with soapy water along the dusty and parched floor boards.

“Like I said, it doesn’t get out all that soaked in grime, and we can’t have my potions space contaminated, can we?” He said, matter of factly.

Certainly they _could_ have scourgified first, but, honestly, Draco was enjoying this too much.

When he had first presented Harry with a brush and bucket, Harry had eyed them with an air of surprising determination. He seemed to accept his flagellation for his transgressions with grace.

They carried on in this vein all morning. From room to room they went. Draco organizing supplies and furniture while Harry carried out the deep cleaning in the muggle way. Throughout the day Harry caught Draco watching him shrewdly, a knowing smirk on his lips. But, to his credit, he never wavered. Harry did every menial and hard task Draco could throw at him no matter how tedious and did it without complaint. Did it as cheerfully as one could covered in sweat and dirt with splinters under their fingernails.

They were unusually quiet over their lunch break and Harry watched Draco carefully, as if considering something important.

“What?” Draco finally snapped. Unable to take the knowing looks any longer. Harry smiled ruefully and shook his head.

“Nothing.” He said slyly. Draco narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything, continuing to pick at his jam sandwich.

“So, what next?” Harry asked with much more enthusiasm than Draco felt when they returned to their work downstairs.

_______

 

Later that afternoon Draco’s feelings of frostiness towards Harry hadn’t abated and he was feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. He found himself compulsively pacing from room to room with no clear course of action, minutely rearranging things he had already organized.

He simultaneously wanted to be unnecessarily close to Harry while he painstakingly cleaned Draco’s practice space, and yet, couldn’t bare to be in the same room with him. He wanted to go upstairs and write on his post-it notes, but decided that would be too revealing with Harry there.

A soft flutter of leathery wings being stretched in his periphery caught his attention and he stopped his macabre mulling to see Voileami sidling up to him, sniffing curiously at the potions ingredients in Draco’s hands.

“Hello, you.” He said, smiling despite himself. He hadn’t seen her in days. “Where’ve you been? Where’s your friend?”

“Flea’s in here!” He heard Harry calling cheerfully from down the hall. Draco rolled his eyes to Voileami but didn’t call back.

“Fleabag… honestly. You don’t even have fur. It’s not even clever.” Draco muttered his ire, smiling despite himself as he stroked her velvety smooth beak. She closed her eyes and hung her head, enjoying the affection, completely unaware of Draco’s internal strife.

A pounding at the front door startled Draco and Voileami tossed her head nervously. “It’s fine, it’s probably just Neville coming to bring plants.” He told her soothingly, patting her neck.

As Draco scooted around Voileami, whoever was at the door, pounded again, more vigorously.

“Yes, yes, yes.” Draco said to no on in particular, reaching his hand out for the door.

When he pulled it open he was momentarily stunned at the definitely not-Neville Longbottom standing on his front stoop.

“Can I help you?” He asked, sounding far too confused.

The two ministry wizards didn’t answer him right away. They stood, surveying him with clinical detachment, as if sizing up how best to tackle and hogtie him. They wore plain and imposing black robes over tailored suits and dark aviator sunglasses. These were not aurors, nor were they unspeakables. These were upper level ministry dogs. The kind that usually protect the minister when he’s out in public. The kind no one wants at their front door.

Just as Draco was feeling distinctly uncomfortable, in his sweaty t-shirt and wrinkled trousers, under their scrutiny, and about to ask what the fuck they wanted, the short one spoke. Pulling a roll of parchment out from his black robes he drawled lazily, as if in no rush to get to the point, “Mr. Malfoy we have a few questions for you, if you would be so kind to show us in.”

“Healer.”

“Pardon?” The other one grunted.

“It’s Healer Malfoy.” He corrected cooly. “And, I’m perfectly capable of answering questions here, if you don’t mind. I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“We mind.” Said the first one, shoving the parchment towards Draco. “We have orders to search the premise.”

“For what?!” Draco asked shrilly. He hadn’t been accused of anything nefarious since before he was cleared at his trial.

“We’ve been advised that your potion license may have expired and that you’re brewing illegally. Now, if you don’t mind-“

“Draco?” Harry’s voice called as he came to investigate.

The two men stilled, exchanging a look before plastering on passive, bland expressions.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked eyeing the men with narrowed eyes. Draco could feel his magic raising, pulsing like defensive quills around him, pointing at the intruders.

“They think I’m brewing illegal potions.” Draco scoffed, his arms tight across his chest.

“Based on what?” Harry demanded of them.

“An anonymous tip.” Said the short one.

“Where’s your warrant?” His voice was hard and commanding.

Draco passed the scroll to him, not yet having unrolled it.

Harry snatched it, unfurled it, and scanned it quickly, his expression growing more stoney.

“This is bullshit. It doesn’t give you the right to come inside. It’s just an order to clarify Draco’s potion brewing status.”

Simultaneously the two men retrieved identical law enforcement badges from within their robes, eyes not leaving Harry.

“The entire point is moot, by the way, my license is _not_ expired. It’s good for five years and I reapplied three years ago. I needed it to get the business permit-”

“We’d like to have a look around. Put the ministry’s mind at ease, you see.” the taller one said smoothly.

“No.” Harry’s voice rang out.

“It’s fine, they can bloody well come in.” Draco muttered mutinously, feeling it would not be clever of him to get on the ministry’s bad side just as he was about to open a private practice.

“No.” Harry said more loudly, and Draco winced. “They don’t have the right to or a reason to come inside. They’re just trying to push you around. Draco, go get your brewing license so they can be satisfied and be on their way.”

Draco hesitated, not liking to be ordered about. But, looking uncomfortably between the law enforcement agents and Harry who were having an intense stare down, he accepted defeat and turned towards the stairs. Harry’s magic was crackling around the whole room, making all the hairs on Draco’s arms stand at attention as he walked away.

Coming back to the front door, license in hand, Draco noticed that they hadn’t moved a muscle, their stare-down going strong. He cleared his throat and thrust his brewing license towards the agents. Neither moved to take the paper nor did they show any particular interest in it. The short one’s eyes flickered down for a fraction of a second before he spoke, taking his aviators off.

“Thank you, _Healer_ Malfoy. That all seems to be in order.” he drawled cruel amusement as he methodically cleaned his lenses with a soft grey cloth he pulled from an inside pocket. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing you around.” He gave Draco and Harry one last contemptuous look before donning his sunglass and turning in unison with his partner.

Harry wandlessly slammed the door shut before they had reached the street, rattling the window panes. Draco jumped, the loud noise grating his nerves.

They exchanged a concerned and charged look before wordlessly making their way upstairs.

After their unexpected visitors, Harry spent the late afternoon and early evening brooding. His magic felt sharp, like rolls of barbed wire draping around his shoulders and Draco didn’t know what to do to sooth his sharp edges.

He, himself, had succumbed to the overwhelming pull of his post-it notes and sat hunched at his desk, scribbling away his nerves.

When the clock on the wall showed 5:30 a thought occurred to Draco, and he straightened his back before turning to face the room. “Potter, don’t you normally have a meeting at 5 on Thursdays?”

Harry who had been cleaning the kitchen with an almost frightening determination, froze, his magic swirling around him, the air of someone cornered. He didn’t answer. Just stood there looking down at his hands in the sink, his shoulders stiff with tension.

“Harry?” Draco tried again, getting up and slowly walking towards him.

Harry shook the water off of his hands and dried them on the damp dishcloth draped across his shoulder before turning to look at Draco. His jaw was tight and his eyes were downturned. He leaned back against the sink and gripped the edge of the counter behind him with white knuckles, as Draco stood opposite him against the breakfast bar.

“I’ve only been to one meeting since I last saw you.” He said, still not looking at him.

Draco’s arms were tight across his chest and he could feel their magic dancing carefully around one another. Uncertainty thick in the air. They had spent the entire day ignoring the last month.

“Why?”

“I, um- I almost relapsed after- after I left you at Grimmauld.”

Draco stood very still. He didn’t know what to say. Nothing felt appropriate. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was reach out and squeeze Harry’s arm, just to anchor him. He did so carefully but firmly.

“I didn’t.” Harry deflected, not responding to Draco’s touch. “But, it was close. Too close. Ron came to get me.”

He was silent for a moment, waiting for the right words to form in his mouth. “I know you don’t feel good about this slide backwards, but “almost” is still a net positive, Harry. Your sobriety is intact. It’s okay to not be okay 100% of the time. It’s human to struggle.” Draco said softly. He didn’t want to excuse anything or dismiss Harry’s feelings, but he needed him to know that he could be proud of himself for resisting. Even if it was an ugly battle that he dragged himself through the entire time.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, hard, and scrunched his eyes. As if he were trying to hold back a raging flood. Or fiendfyre.

Draco finally dropped his hand from Harry’s arm, but Harry darted out to catch it and squeezed it hard. Draco let him hold his hand too tightly as he wrestled with whatever it was he wanted to say.

“I was afraid to tell you.” Harry said, still scrunching his face, his eyes closed.

“Why?”

“Same reason I didn’t go back to the meetings.” He sighed and finally looked up. His eyes were over bright and his face looked like he might be sick. “I was embarrassed by how far back I fell, so quickly. It was like a reflex. And, I’m just not ready to tell the group yet. ”

Draco squeezed his hand in understanding. He resonated with the embarrassment that comes with feeling incapable of getting yourself from one moment to the next without crawling through the battlefield of your own mind. “Harry, you can’t isolate yourself from your support system just because you’re embarrassed. Trust me. It doesn’t work.”

Harry smirked with a small self deprecating smile, “Secrets and lies.” He murmured.

“Exactly.”

“I thought you’d be furious.” Harry said, searching Draco’s face.

“I’m furious that you didn’t speak to me for three weeks, not that you almost relapsed. What kind of monster would be mad at your for struggling?”

Harry shrugged, looking down at their joined hands.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Harry took so long to answer that he began regretting that he had asked.

When Harry spoke, his voice was small and he continued to look down at their hands. “I left you and apparated directly to a small town that we had hid near when we were on the run. Where no one would recognize me or find me.” He began uncertainty, and Draco gently swiped his thumb over Harry’s knuckles in encouragement. “I bought a bottle of Jameson… I went to the moor that we had camped on, and I sat there. I was so sure that I was going to do it. So sure that I wanted to forget for a while. I had even opened the bottle.”

“What stopped you?”

“I realized I didn’t have to be alone. I called for Ron and came and sat with me. Vanished the bottle.”

“I’m glad you called Ron.” Draco said quietly.  

Harry finally looked up to meet Draco’s eyes and he looked relieved by the confession.

“Me too.”

He moved forward slowly, giving Draco the opportunity to refuse, but when he didn’t, Harry wrapped his arms around him tightly. Draco could feel his magic, lighter than it had been since their visitors. The stress of the day suspended as he gripped Harry tightly to him.

__________

 

Draco woke disoriented in the dark. The heavy, irregular breathing and grunting next to him alerting him to Harry’s dream. He turned quickly to face him and ran his fingers through Harry’s sweat soaked hair. His face, just visible in the low light of the room, was twisted into a painful grimace.

“Shhh, Harry. It’s okay.” He whispered soothingly as he continued to methodically and firmly caress Harry tangle of damp hair. “You’re okay.”

“I’m not a grim.” Harry grumbled in his sleep.

“Shhh, of course, you’re not.” He said, knowing full well that dreams were usually entirely nonsensical.

“I’m not a Grim, Remus.” Harry retorted with more force.

Draco’s brows furrowed as he tried to figure out Harry’s dream logic, gently shushing him, alternating running his fingers through his hair and rubbing soothing circles in his back.

Harry mumbled a few incoherent sentences that made Draco smile to himself. Whatever dream he seemed to be having didn’t appear to be a nightmare that he needed to be saved from.

“I wonder where you are.” Draco mused to himself as Harry mumbled and twitched.

“North. Always North.” Harry answered, to Draco’s surprise.

No more cryptic words were forthcoming after that. Draco fell asleep with their foreheads inches apart as Harry’s mumblings lessened and he too drifted off.

_______________

 

They woke the next morning to yet more pounding on the front door. Harry was out of bed and rushing down the steps, his magic furious and protective, before Draco had even oriented himself. “Fuck.” Draco muttered to no one. The last thing they needed was Harry getting arrested in his underwear for trying to protect Draco from pushy ministry agents.

He tossed on a shirt and ran down the steps after Harry who had already reached the front door and was speaking with someone.

“Hiya, Draco!” Neville shouted cheerfully as Draco came running down the stairs. “Sorry that I’m here so early.”

Harry looked relieved, but wild, standing there in his pants and undershirt, his hair and magic standing out in all directions, his glasses skew on his face.

Draco for his part felt overly exposed idling in the front hall in his pyjamas next to his half clad boyfriend, greeting a friend at the door who was carrying a box of many plants.

“It’s fine Neville, come in. Do you want some tea?” asked Draco, his brain still thick with sleep.

“No, thank you, I’ve got to get back to Hestia, I just wanted to drop these off while I had the time.”

Neville shoved a large box into Harry’s arms, whose face was awash with startled confusion. It was clear he had rushed downstairs expecting a fight to the death and instead he was faced with a box of potted ficus. He turned dazedly to walk back across the room, setting it down on the reception desk.

Neville followed behind with a second box and set it on the floor. “These are for in here,” he indicated to the box on the desk, “and, these are for your exam room.” He indicated to the box on the floor.

“They’re all shrunk down, obviously, so you’ll need to lift the charm, but just set them where you want and place an atmospheric charm on the lot. Let me know when you’re ready to start your potions garden.” Neville was beaming brightly.

“Thanks, Neville, you’re a star.” He said examining the waxy deep green leaves of something he was sure was called a philodendron.

“And, uh, sorry for interrupting your morning.” He said with a sly smirk towards Harry’s revealing clothing choice.

Draco blushed furiously and sputtered incoherently. Harry cracked his first smile since flying to the front door and shook his head, walking towards the stairs. “Bye Nev!” He shouted, by way of response.

Neville laughed and turned to leave. “Enjoy your day!” he shouted back. Draco groaned in embarrassment as Neville closed the door behind him.

He had just reached the top of the stairs, ready to snipe at Harry for running to the door half naked, when the front door sounded again. “Merlin’s sagging tits, what now?!” Draco moaned.

Harry, looking just as furiously resolute as he had when he greeted Neville, brushed past Draco, fully clothed this time, to answer the door. He seemed determined that Draco should not do it himself.

“You know, I can answer my own door!” Draco shouted at his descending back. Harry didn’t respond. He moved to throw some proper clothes on while Harry dealt with whatever was happening downstairs. As he was pulling his socks on he heard two sets of feet walking up the stairs, and he quick jumped up and pointed his wand at the unmade bed and piles of clothing on the floor, in an effort to look less like a slob for whoever the fuck was visiting at 8 in the morning.

Harry emerged from the stairs followed by a woman Draco didn’t recognize, but whose affect was strangely familiar. Before he got a chance to ask who she was and what she was doing in his flat, before he even got a chance to take in the straight white hair and pale wrinkled face, she pointed her wand at herself and said, “ _Finite Incantatum._ ”

The small old white woman was instantly replaced with the much younger, black, Hermione Granger.

“Granger?” Draco asked, but she shot him a murderous look that begged for silence. He closed his mouth as she began casting around the room. Lacing the dark wooden room with her ice blue lattice threads of magic.

“I’ve already done this Hermione.” Harry said softly, eyes darting to Draco, but she didn’t stop.

“I’ve already done it too, and I know Draco has, but a little more reinforcements never hurt anyone.” she said firmly.

Draco just sat dumbly on his bed, completely flabbergasted that the two of them had already cast enough protective magic to make his flat an impenetrable fortress without him realizing. “I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself, you know.” He said testily as Harry watched Hermione work.

“We know.” She said simply, her wand ceaselessly working.

Harry turned towards the kitchen to start the compulsory tea making process. “What’ll it be today?” He called gruffly to Draco.

“There’s a blue tin in the cupboard, I think that’ll be most appropriate for this morning.” He said rubbing his eyes. He needed something strong and fortifying. His motherwort blend should do the trick. They didn’t call it the lion-hearted herb for nothing. Harry nodded and began rummaging for the tin.

“Okay.” Hermione said when she was finished. She turned and smiled kindly. “Good morning, Draco. How are you? Sorry about the cryptic entrance.”

“Not at all.” Draco said flippantly, resigned. “I’m fine, things are almost ready here. I should be able to open by Monday the 13th. I don’t have a receptionist, but I don’t think I want one yet.”

Hermione nodded approvingly. “Good. Yes, I think you’ll be fine on your own for now. Unice has a few patients line up for you, and St. Mungo’s is happy that you’ll be brewing speciality potions.”

“Okay, that sounds great.” Said Draco. “So, why the cloak and dagger visit?”

Hermione smiled. “Old habits die hard, I suppose.” Her eyes swivelled to Harry. “I turned in our report on your research to the DoM. Your initial research, that you completed in the forest, will be made available to the public through St. Mungo’s research department, but everything we worked on afterwards is classified and incomplete. I gave them your resignation letter stating that you wanted to focus on your speciality and private practice and that you weren’t interested in pursuing the thestral lore because there was no science behind it.”

Draco nodded.

“I just wanted to come and warn you to watch out for anything unusual. The DoM accepted the story pretty gracefully and I wasn’t questioned in a way that was out of the ordinary, but it would be unusual if they didn’t follow up on you--”

“They came yesterday.” Harry interrupted, his face and posture rigid.

“What?” she asked, startled.

“Yeah, two agents came and tried to strong arm their way on to the premise. Some bullshit story about Draco’s brewing license being expired. They seemed surprised to see me.”

Harry was standing with his feet wide and his arms across his chest. He looked every bit like an auror in that moment.

“I’m sure they were, your relationship isn’t common knowledge yet.” Hermione said, looking between the two of them. “As far as they’re concerned, Draco is a bit of a hermit with few friends.” She shrugged apologetically. “Sorry.”

Draco shook his head, it wasn’t an entirely false description.

“Either way, I’m surprised they used Ministry agents right out of the gate.” She chewed on her lip, thinking. “I think you’ll need to be very careful about what you talk about and where. Don’t mention the thestrals, Death Herders, or the Grim, Harry, unless you’re in a protected location, like this flat. Don’t even speak about it downstairs.”

Something stirred in Draco’s memory. The grim. _I’m not a grim, Remus._

“Harry, you were talking in your sleep last night about a grim.”

Harry’s eyes shot towards Draco, a look of deep concentration lined his face as gears worked to place Draco’s words.

“You said, ‘ _I’m not a grim, Remus.’_ and then you said you were ‘ _going north, always north.’”_ he explained.

Harry’s eyebrows rose and his mouth was in a comical ‘O’ as he clearly remembered his dream.

“Yeah… Yeah, I dreamt I was Sirius again.” He said, looking towards Hermione.

“Again?” Draco asked.

“Really?” Hermione sounded excited like she did when she was on to something. “What was this one about?”

“There were more?” Draco tried again. They continued to ignore his questions, too caught up in revelations Draco wasn’t privy to.

“Yeah, I was him, but this time I wasn’t in Africa, or I was leaving Africa… I was with Remus, or going north to be with Remus. I can’t remember this one as well. Neville woke me up so suddenly this morning.”

“Neville?” Hermione sounded confused.

“Yes, Potter was expecting a duel and greeted him in his pants.” Draco snorted.

Hermione laughed.

“Fuck off.” Harry grunted, trying to hide his amusement and embarrassment.

Draco couldn’t help smiling. “It was very gallant.”

Hermione chuckled as Harry turned, red faced and smirking back towards the tea tray.

“Anyway,” Harry deflected, carrying the tea tray to the sofa, “we think Sirius may have been a grim, and that Dumbledore was keeping him trapped in Grimmauld Place to use him.”

“Wow.” Draco didn’t really know what else to say to that startling proclamation.

“Yeah, we don’t know the details, really, but I keep having these dreams about him from when he went into hiding after he escaped the dementors. I think he went all the way to South Africa, but something spooked him while he was hiding in a forest and he started making his way back home for answers.”

“Why don’t you ask Dumbledore?” Draco said, burning with curiosity and a desire to put all the pieces of this puzzle together.

“What?” Harry and Hermione asked together.

“Ask Dumbledore.” he repeated. “We spoke about going to tell McGonagall anyways, we can ask his portrait while we’re there.”

“Oh.” Harry seemed shocked by the idea. “I never thought to do that…”

“Remember when I went to speak to Severus last year? Powerful wizards have powerful portraits. I’m sure he’ll have information for you.”

“Okay, yeah. Let’s do that. I have another monument to take there anyways.”

“Did you finish it?” Hermione asked very quietly, her face soft, sitting on the arm of the sofa and resting her hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Yeah.” Harry said gently, smiling at her and squeezing her knee. “I’ll show you before I take it to Hogwarts.” Draco was missing something. His eyes volleying back and forth between them as they shared a moment. He felt like they could probably have entire complex conversations with mostly facial expressions.

Remembering his presence, Harry turned to Draco and handed him a cup of the strong herbal tea with a slice of lemon, “For Fred and George.” He said in explanation. “I made something for them when Percy asked me to a few weeks ago.”

Draco hummed his acknowledgement. It was moments like these when he felt the weight of his part he played in the war. He didn’t know Fred or George very well in school, though he had secretly and desperately wanted to be a part of their pranks and misadventures. But, the reality was that he didn’t fight on their side when it counted. The pain in Harry and Hermione’s eyes when they spoke about them, cut Draco open.

He took a sip of the too-hot tea and let it burn his tongue. Some penance, at least.

 

After Hermione left, Harry gave Draco a swift kiss on the cheek before disapparating to his first meeting in weeks. The house felt oddly empty without him, though the entire flat bore evidence of his presence. His toothbrush in a cup next to Draco’s on the sink, a pair of blue socks on the floor by the couch, a ratty hoodie draped across Draco’s desk chair, his encouragemint on the window sill next to Draco's.

He curled his hand around his third cup of tea and smiled to himself as he ran his fingers along the hem of the ghastly jumper. Allowing himself to feel happy for the first time in weeks.

_____________

 

When Harry came - home? Back to Draco’s? - that night, Draco felt a thrill of relief. He didn’t want to admit to himself that by six pm he was feeling distinctly worried that Harry wasn’t coming back or that something had happened.

He had spent the day organizing all of Neville’s lovely plants. All specially chosen to create a comfortable atmosphere. Many of them well known for their excellent oxygen-producing capabilities. He got lost in the process for a good few hours, but by three in the afternoon, he was done and needed to do something to distract himself from spiralling into a crisis.

He organized his post-its. Did the laundry. And, even tried to read a book, to no avail. He decided to scrub down the entire flat. Getting out his trusty bucket and a stiff bristle brush, he relished in the catharsis that was muggle cleaning. He even cleared out a drawer in his chest of drawers for Harry to put his things in, then panicked at his own presumption, proceeding to pace around the flat questioning his every life decision that led him to this point.

He made dinner, as well. Bolognese. Not for any romantic or nostalgic reason, _obviously_ , but, because it was simple and easy, and he was sure Harry hadn’t fed himself all day.

None of these activities, however, were consuming enough to stop Draco from circuitously pacing around the flat, sweating with nerves.

When the crack of apparition sounded in the hall downstairs, he nearly jumped out of his skin with giddy anxiety. He couldn’t figure out how to place himself to appear natural. Like he wasn’t frantically worried about Harry the entire time. Harry didn’t need to know how hard it was for Draco to maintain composure. He didn’t want to overwhelm him with how extra he was.

Boots thudded up the stairs and Draco turned to busy himself with the kettle so as to appear occupied and at ease. _Smooth,_ he thought to himself, spooning loose leaves of tea into the teapot.

"Smells good.” Harry said, pulling his leather jacket off and tossing it towards Draco’s desk chair.

Draco turned around, feeling relief and over excitement flooding through him. Why was he like this? Harry had been sleeping here for two nights now, this shouldn’t be so overwhelmingly exciting that he came back at the end of the day.

But it was. _Dear Gods, it was thrilling._

“Thanks.” Draco managed to say, still toying with the tea tray, even though there was nothing to be done. “Tea?”

“Sure.” came Harry’s voice from right behind him.

He turned to look at Harry who was smiling at him in a knowing and affectionate way.

He narrowed his eyes and he surveyed him suspiciously. “What?” His voice was far too defensive.

“Nothing.” Harry smiled placatingly, reaching out to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind Draco’s ear. The gentle and familiar movement left Draco nearly speechless. He continued to watch him and Harry continued to smile back.

“How was your day?” Draco finally asked, unable to take the suspense or the _feelings_ in his chest.

Harry shrugged. “It was really good, actually. Hard. But, good. Thanks for encouraging me to go back to meetings.”

Draco nodded, hyper aware of his own body and movements. “Dinner?”

They grabbed their plates and tea and made their way to the sofa where Harry filled Draco in on the progress at Grimmauld place, how things are moving forward and expanding faster than Harry could have anticipated. How the house felt happy to have a purpose again.

“This is nice, you know.” Harry said after a while.

“What is?”

“The food, you, coming back here at the end of the day.” Harry was looking at his plate but Draco could see the pink tinge on his cheeks. “Thank you, for letting me stay. I realized today how hard it would be for me to stay at Grimmauld with the meetings going on. We had some new members and I could _smell_ how recently they had used. Just their posture put me on edge.” He sighed. “I know we haven’t talked about this, or how long I can stay… I suppose we should do that, huh?”

He felt surprised by Harry’s shyness. His usually brash Gryffindor was oozing vulnerability and insecurity and all he wanted to do was shake him and scream _you can stay as long as you want, never leave!_ But, “I cleaned out a drawer for you.” was what he blurted out instead. _Very smooth,_ he thought, face turning pink.

Harry looked at him in surprised confusion. “What?”

Draco cleared his throat and stuttered an incoherent, “-you know, if you’re going to be here and your stuff is going to be here- so you don’t have to live out of that ghastly box, and uh, you know, leave your ratty hoody by my desk… You can put your things away properly like a civilized creature.”

The force at which Harry lunged at Draco was quite startling, but it happened so quickly all he had time to do was brace himself on the arm of the sofa. The kiss was sloppy and there was far too much teeth involved, but it was consuming and Harry tasted like _his_.

When Harry pulled away he had a dazed look and he was still holding Draco’s face tightly between his hands. Draco was a little breathless and didn’t know how to articulate a single one of the bursting feelings in his chest.

So instead, he kissed Harry again.


	18. Twins

##  Twins

October 13, 2009

To the East, the sun had not yet broken over distant mountains, yet the moon had long since sank behind the rolling hills in the Western sky. Between the two, Harry rolled over in bed, just as he rolled away from the ethereal grasp of a dream. A dream about something soft and careful and lovely. Kind and safe. He felt it lay across his skin, just as the simple cotton sheets did. Just as warm, and yet, breathable. Protective, yet not suffocating. Draco had insisted on them. Harry didn’t mind.  

He slipped his arms around the sleeping figure next to him, sighing softly into his hair. He smelled hints of lemon and lavender and that strange little herb, dragon’s blood Draco had called it, and Harry had laughed. Draco must have been brewing half the night, and the vapours had clung to him, subtle yet persistent, they had remained. 

He felt Draco stirring in his grasp. 

Harry kissed the slip of shoulder that had appeared beneath the oversized jumper Draco had donned before bed. Soft and careful and safe and just a hint of salt, left dusted across his skin. He kissed it again, the dragon’s blood sweet and enchanting, his nose full of the smell of him. His lips pressed against the tip of one of the many marks that swept across Draco’s chest, and Harry let a familiar ridge slide against his tongue and his teeth and the hot breath of his exhale against the resilient shine of the arching slip of scar tissue, almost graceful in it’s curvature. So many things about Draco were sharp and exacting, but not this. This was all subtlety, round and lunate. 

“Harry.” Draco’s voice was full of sleep, thick and languid, but Harry could hear the smile that had pulled around the sound of his name. Such a simple thing, his name, but to hear it spoken like that, in the folds of night, as if it was a gift, a joy. He felt himself get hard. 

“Draco.” Harry’s voice was deep and rough and he felt needy in the way he asked for Draco by name. The way the word spilled out of him, affected as he was. He exhaled softly against Draco’s neck, his hips pressed firmly up against Draco’s bum, no longer shy, no longer timid. 

Draco rolled beneath his arm to face him, the smell of dragon’s blood stronger in the tousle of his hair and the press of Draco’s lips against his, soft and wet and agonising. 

It didn’t always happen like this, in the quiet hours of the morning, between sleep and dreams and the distant rotation of the galaxy. Some evenings, it happened in the kitchen, the kettle on for tea, empty mugs and waiting teabags, and Harry finding himself on his knees, enamored with the man before him, messy kisses up his newly naked thighs. Full of worshipful fascination, licking and kissing and swallowing all of his prayers. 

Sometimes, Draco waited for Harry to walk in the door after meetings, just there in the hallway, frantic kisses and Draco in his arms, his legs wrapped around his waist, back pressed up against the ugly wallpaper, his hands deep in Harry’s hair, fingers curled against his scalp. Desperate for reassurances. For touch. For certainty. 

Some of these days, Harry would carry him up the stairs like that, arms wrapped around Draco’s thighs, their breath mixing together, humid and unfocused. He’d lay him out across the bed and take the afternoon to wash away every anxious moment, scrub away the doubt from his flesh, clean him of each insecurity, slow and deliberate and he’d be so delicate to them both. He’d let Draco unravel in his arms, then put him all back together again, flushed and beautiful and consuming. 

But this night. This night was not that. This night was Harry’s turn to feel the ache of something so primal and inexplicable, something that lapped at the edges of him, made his skin hot and feverish and emphatic. 

“Draco.” He already sounded broken. 

And he could feel Draco smiling against his lips, his leg sliding over his hip, rolling him, pushing him onto his back, Draco’s hands splayed across his bare chest, bright against the dark, his blonde hair hanging down, the smell of dragon’s blood strong between them. 

Harry groaned as Draco let his weight settle against his chest. His hips. The tops of his thighs. He loved the press of his body. The sureness of it. The gravity. Holding him. Melding them together. 

He let his hands drift along Draco’s hips and slid his jumper up his back to trace fingertips along the soft and sweeping curves he found there, expanses of flesh he wanted to commit to memory, to read like braille.   

Gods, he was decadent. Decadent and extraordinary. 

“Draco.” His voice was the softest yet, his cock straining against the thin fabric of his pants, and he had to close his eyes against the rush he felt, the draw, the longing, his fingers curling into the thin fabric of Draco’s jumper. 

“Tell me what you need, Harry.” Draco ran his fingers down Harry’s chest, nails just grazing his skin, pulling down across the flat of his stomach. 

“Unhh.” Harry sucked in the words that had formed, his stomach taught and heart fluttering. Gods, he needed anything. Everything. 

Draco was looking at him. Blue grey eyes soft and welcoming in the dark. Focused on him, unwavering. His hands lay against the flat of his belly, rising with each of his breaths, which were coming quicker now.

“I need…” Harry closed his eyes against Draco’s gaze. He could feel heat in his cheeks and imagined they were darkening. 

He felt split. Discordant. As if a remnant of himself was preoccupied with carrying vestigial shame. Fear. Anxiety about what he wanted. What he needed. What Draco had just asked him to voice. To name. To speak into the humid air between them, thick with their breath and all the things they had left unsaid. Had yet to speak about. 

The rest of him, oh, the rest of him  _ ached _ . His skin was hot and flushed, his hands twisted into the fabric of Draco’s jumper, as if ne needed them trapped, or else they would wander. They would betray what he wanted, what he needed Draco to understand. What he wanted to ask for, but couldn’t find the words to explain. He wasn't brave enough. Not for this. 

Harry swallowed hard, opening his eyes to Draco’s still patient visage. Patient and calm and knowing. And Harry was reacquainted all at once with the knowledge that Draco knew exactly what it was to feel overwhelmed by your own desires, to question them, to need someone safe and careful to hold you fast as you rocked up against the fear, too intent on being consumed by the pleasure. Draco knew. Draco was safe. 

And he let that small part of himself that was shameful and shy and scared, he let it fall away, unwinding his hands from the fabric that had unwittingly held sway, running his palms down Draco’s thighs. He swallowed hard, eyes seeking out Draco’s once more. 

“I need you to open me up.” And the words rushed out of him, grateful and hopeful all at once, and Harry’s breathing was fast for the excitement, for the knowing that for all his trepidation, Draco was the one he trusted to let him be honest with what he wanted. What he needed. 

And, without waiting for his reply, Harry rolled beneath him, his stomach flat to the bed, cock pressed tightly up beneath his navel, his hips pulling up and lifting his ass, thighs just barely spread, Draco’s hands now dragging along the slow sweep of his lower back and the arch of his sacrum, fingers just at the hem of his pants.    
  
“ _ Evanesco _ .” And Harry breathed out heavily into the pillow below him, his body thrumming with the knowledge that Draco’s voice had wavered, just the tiniest bit, as his pants disappeared from his body, Draco’s magic gentle and calming against his feverish skin. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” 

Harry turned his head to the side to look back over his shoulder, catching Draco’s staring open mouthed down at his ass, his hands running down his hips, feeling each cheek in turn, pulling them apart, spreading him. 

“I’ve thought about this for ages, you know, having you like this.” Draco was kneading fistfulls of his ass in his hands, pushing his flesh up and aside, exposing him. 

“Me too.” And it was Harry’s turn for his voice to waver. He turned his head back to the pillow below him, concentrating on breathing deeply, on relaxing, on sinking into the feeling of Draco’s hands on his skin, of his magic, so reassuringly familiar. Whispered cleaning spells and a lubrication charm and Harry felt Draco’s hands slide against the slip of skin between his cheeks, against his hole. 

Harry rounded his shoulders and tensed, reflexively, and Draco froze, his other hand coming up to rub slowly against Harry’s sacrum, soft and slow pressure up against his spine, long and gentle strokes.  

“Shh. I’ve got you. I’m going to make you feel so good, I promise, Harry.” 

Harry let out the breath he was holding and felt himself sink back into Draco’s touch, against the unfamiliar, yet tantalising, pressure against his ass. Eventually, his heart slowed, and his breathing began to match the rhythmic slide of Draco’s palm along his back. In and out, deep and even. Draco must have noticed his shoulders fall, because he slowly began to rub a gentle circle around the rim, the soft ridges of Harry’s flesh giving way as he pressed a finger inside

“You’re doing so well.”   
  
And Harry let the strangeness of the sensation slide away into the awe in Draco’s voice, thick with want, and the way his hand stroked against his flesh, strong and firm and grounding, as his other hand pressed deeper, slowly but surely working into him.    


It wasn’t long before Harry felt himself pressing back, his hips arching, his knees drawing up, thighs spread. 

“Gods, Harry, you look incredible like this.” And it was the desire in Draco’s voice that rippled through him. Harry recognised it in the soft, gravely tones, the way he spoke, as if to himself, as if there was nothing in the universe but that moment between them. As if there could be nothing but Harry, naked and pliant in his hands. Harry moaned into the pillow below him, and Draco slipped a second finger beside the first. 

And there was an initial burning sensation, but it was so quickly drowned out by the sweep of Draco’s fingers against a part of him that caused his mind to go blank and his body to tremble, his breaths coming as wanton pants, his hands desperately grasping to the sheet below him, his back tight with the new sensation. 

“Nngh.” Harry managed, his brows knitted together, his eyes closed, his whole body focused in on the slide of Draco against these hidden parts of himself, parts that had sent such a tangled pleasurable thrum through him. The fear and the newness had left his cock soft, but this. This and Harry felt himself getting hard again, lifting his hips further from the sheets, his growing erection desperate for its own attentions. He wanted to come like this. Desperately. 

“Draco.” And Harry’s voice had passed wrecked, and he couldn’t think of what to say, only that he didn’t want him to stop. Didn’t want him to ever stop. That he needed more. That he wanted to come. That he needed to. 

“Come for me, Harry.” And it’s as though Draco could hear his thoughts. Could feel his desperation, thick and curling around the sheets that Draco had demanded and Harry hadn’t minded, sheets that had been pushed aside for the shimmering gleam of their nakedness, luminous and radiant and shining with sweat. With vulnerability. Unguarded.

His eyes still closed, Harry relinquished his hold on the sheet and reached down his stomach, soft and damp with sweat, and took hold of his cock, unbearably hard and leaking at the tip. Harry moaned as he stroked in time with Draco’s deft sweeps of that slip of flesh inside him, the one that makes his body tremble, an inevitable building of heat and tension forming within his balls, which were tight against him. He could feel his orgasm building, a relentless onslaught of sensation, of every tremor running through him, all convalescing, summing, engulfing him. 

And he’d said Draco’s name over and over as he finally let himself go, as his orgasm overtook him, and he was nothing but a trembling mess on the bed, panting and mewling and whimpering in the petit mort. 

And Draco’s voice was muffled, as though distant. “You’re okay, Harry. I’ve got you.” 

And he was enfolded into Draco’s arms, and it was long before either of them spoke, their heavy breaths slowly blending into the soft and quiet stillness of the night. It was long after Draco had pulled the rumpled sheet from around their feet and lay it across their skin. 

Only then had Harry’s voice rumbled softly into the darkness, thick with sleep and fatigue, his voice soft and tempered.  

“Draco.” 

Harry rolled to face him, sleep chasing his every movement, his body sinking down into the softness of the bed they shared, the warmth of Draco’s body close and comforting. His eyes were closing, thoughts slipping away into dreams. The smell of dragon’s blood still lingered in the air between them. 

“Love you.” 

And Harry was asleep, dreaming of the soft herbal smells of the hollow and the calls of the loon, deep and resonant into the night, not even sure he’d said anything at all. 

 

_____________

October 14, 2009

Harry woke to a sharp thudding that vibrated through the little attic flat, the windowpanes beside the bed rattling threateningly. He grunted, throwing the tangle of sheets from around his legs, waking Draco in the process. 

“Someone’s at the door again.” Harry was still half asleep, valiantly trying to organise himself into the semblance of a man who could answer the door without violating any public indecency laws. 

“I’m already dressed.” Draco was pushing him back down against the soft blanket, throwing a black silk kimono over his ratty jumper, tying the sash as he jogged down the stairs, feet pushed into black slippers. Harry could hear him calling for just a moment in his poshest accent, probably smoothing his hair as he went. 

Harry lay his head back against the pillow, rubbing his eyes and trying to shake the last of sleep from him. It was too early for this nonsense. Not after the night he’d had. He smiled to himself, his body just sore enough to ensure he wouldn’t forget the way Draco had… 

He could hear raised voices from the hall, all thoughts of their midnight escapades faded from his mind.

The front door slammed, and Harry could hear Draco’s thunderous footsteps making his way back up to the flat. Harry was sitting up now, his brow creased in concern. 

“Seven in the morning and these brutes think it’s acceptable to call on me. At my home. Absolute harassment. Do they know who I am? They’re lucky I didn’t crucio them. The swine.” Draco was stomping on past the bed and toward the kitchen.

“Draco?” Harry called as he huffed past, Voileami trailing at his heels, ears pinned back in equal anger. 

Harry clambered out of bed, picking up a spare pair of pants off the pile of folded laundry in the corner, slipping them on as he followed Draco to the kitchen. 

“Who was at the door?” He asked as he slipped around the winged creature in the entrance to the kitchen, giving her a pat and a scratch behind the ear hello. 

“Ministry hags.” Draco spat, his magic twirling the tiny honey spoon in his tea far too fast, scalding water threatening to splash across the counter. Harry silently tampered the spell with his own, earning him a venomous look from Draco, who was now busy cracking eggs. 

“Pretending to have been sent for the regulation and control of magical creatures. Saying there’s been an increase in complaints of thestrals about the neighborhood. What utter rubbish.” Draco was now scrambling the eggs with what could be termed excessive force. 

Harry sighed and sidled in behind Draco, slipping his hands around his chest from behind, palms flat against pectorals, his forehead pressed to his shoulder. 

Draco tensed for a moment before leaning back against Harry, sighing deeply, his hands coming up to cover Harry’s. 

“I only just managed to shut the door before Voileami popped out from the reception and into view. Imagine the scandal. I’m sure they were really from the DoM, Harry. I’d write to Hermione if I wasn’t so sure they were intercepting our letters to read through first.” 

“What did you tell them?” Harry spoke softly, enjoying the feel of Draco leaning back against him, his magic shimmering around them both, protective and just as rattled as Draco to have the Ministry monitoring their doorstep, an effervescent web of golden threads painting itself into the walls and ceiling of the little brown flat, soaking in to the creaky foundation. 

“To eat slugs, in so many words. And that I’ve never seen a thestral here before and to not come knocking at such an ungodly hour ever again.” Draco sighed, returning to his abandoned scrambled eggs. Voileami swished her tail in the entryway. 

“And to think, I was having such a good morning.” Draco turned, smiling at Harry over his shoulder, wooden spatula covered in egg still in hand. Harry blushed, burying his face into Draco’s shoulder further, reaching for Draco’s abandoned cup of tea on the counter. 

Draco smacked his hand away with the spatula, reaching for it himself, taking a small sip, hiding his own pinkening cheeks. 

A moment passed between them, the sounds of the eggs cooking on the cheap stove and the autumn wind picking up in the chilly morning, the old flat complaining of the chill in the shifting whines of ancient floorboards and curmudgeonous support beams. 

“I didn’t believe you, you know.” Draco turned again to look at Harry over his shoulder. “All those months ago, when you said you imagined bottoming. I thought you were just trying to placate me. To make me feel less bad for panicking and running.” 

Harry huffed into Draco’s shoulder, nosing it softly before answering. “I don’t lie to placate you, Draco. Don’t ever expect me to.” 

Harry kissed the back of his shoulder softly and let his hands slide back down his front, his bare feet padding out of the kitchen and back to the bed, keen to get dressed, showered and start his day. He was due at Grimmauld Place early, and he knew Draco would have patients lined up to see downstairs. He liked apparating away before it got too busy, not wanting to distract Draco from his patients, from his work he liked so much. 

No, their time together was safest in the depths of the night, where they could be trusting and open, contained within their sliver of the world together. The confines of their bed. Sometimes he still woke and imagined them together in the cabin, herbs hanging and birds calling awake the dawn, drawing the sun out over the field, warming the hollow, but it would fade into the muted browns and dusty corners of their attic flat, the sounds of Hogsmeade residents replacing the songs of the forest. 

 

_____________

Harry apparated onto the stoop of number 12 Grimmauld Place at ten past eight, swearing to himself as he spun into existence there, well aware that Hestia would not be pleased with his tardiness. 

He looked up at the gentle huff of the adder guardian, who was far more decorative than protective these days, now that the house had been repurposed. 

“ _ Why do so many troubled souls come to this ancient and once noble house, half-master? _ ”

Harry smiled ruefully to himself, always the instigator this little serpent was, never one to let him be. 

“ _ They need a home. _ ” The words came easily, and without much thought. But, Harry mused, in retrospect, that’s really what he had wanted. To make this place, bursting with magic and power and potential, a place of love and growth. Of healing. For all the pain that once lived here. Safe, and kind. 

“ _ And what about you, half-master? Where is your home, now _ ?” 

And Harry stopped, hand halfway to greeting the ironwood, black and gold and full of magic, trees swaying in an imagined wind ghosting through the forest, thestrals pawing amongst roots, wings delicately unfurling below boughs shedding autumn leaves. 

Where was his home? Certainly not the little attic of mustard yellow and dusty browns. He was there because Draco was there, but it wasn’t formal. Wasn’t permanent. He had never unpacked his little box of things, just slid them unceremoniously under the bed for safekeeping. Just his encourage-mint sat in the kitchen, right next to Draco’s, their clouds occasionally bumping together, furling and unfurling as one large thunderhead. 

Where had he ever felt at home? Not the Dursley’s, not the Burrow, not the Granger-Weasleys, not even at Grimmauld Place. Where he slept in the House of Black had always and would always be Sirius’s room. 

He let his hand rest on the ironwood of the door. Strong and stable. Unmovable over the centuries. Thick and dense and resilient. They say that those who worked to fell the ironwood returned home with broken axes and blunted saws, a wood so heavy it sank in water. Gold filigree blossomed and spread from where his hand pressed into the magic beneath his palm, against the grain that had weathered centuries in a forest far away, that had stretched up to the sky, defiant and unfettered, roots curling deep into the earth below. A thestral, his own golden ornamentation blooming across black leathery bones, swooped through the sky. 

“ _ And where would you suggest death makes its home? _ ”

He stepped inside without waiting for a response, the hiss of the adder fading behind him in the warmth of the hall. 

Harry was late, and he snagged a coconut dusted donut, the only one left from the batch that Greg always brought to the early am meeting, off the antique sideboard as he entered, scooting around behind the settee and into his yellow chair, nodding his apologies to Hestia as he did so, doing his best to be polite in the faux pas of his lateness. 

She was across from him, perched in a purple and aged leather chair, deeply wrinkled with time and faded from the habitus of many bodies before hers. Even so early in the morning, Hestia never failed to impress Harry, and she looked absolutely regal, hair pulled up into bantu knots, a crown of yellow roses fantastically set against her knee length deep burgundy dress and black ankle boots over fishnets. As he observed her, however, he noted a stiffness in her posture, a subtle jingling of her booted foot. Her hands, they seemed unnaturally still, as if forcefully kept motionless. 

She had ignored him, and was listening intently to one of the new members that Harry didn’t recognise, there were quite a few in this particular meeting he could not name, introduce herself. 

“... and I knew they’d wanted me in Slytherin. Coming from Death Eaters, they expect it, you know.” Hestia was nodding, a small, tight smile on her lips. She would know, too. She was a Carrow, after all. 

“The hat argued with me for what felt like ages, pure Hufflepuff it told me. I nearly cried, sitting there on that stool. I was desperate to make my father see I belonged. That I was worth his care and affection. Mum, she had died when I was young, sent to Azkaban during the war. Never came out. You know how it was.” 

Harry turned to regard the voice that had spoken as a small silence settled over the room, and he found himself catching sight of the youngest person to attend their meetings yet. She couldn’t be more than 17 or 18, just out of Hogwarts, he thought to himself, scruffy takkies and dirty jeans, bandages from St. Mungo’s still freshly wrapped around her arms. Her faded yellow shirt had holes and her lanky blonde hair looked unwashed. He was forcibly reminded of himself, and that conspicuous lack of care and love that surrounded children who had been guests in the homes of others. Of children who had never belonged to anyone. 

“Dad had died in the battle of Hogwarts and I’d been living with my Grandmum until just recently. She was a nightmare, that one. Hated me, from the moment I’d been sent to her doorstep. It was a quick hop, skip and a jump from there to finding solace elsewhere. In the potions cupboard, for instance. I was young still when I found that out. And now, well, now I’m here.” 

“No matter where you start, no matter how many years you spent coping the ways you knew how or grieving or surviving by whatever means, we are all here today. We all begin again, from here. Welcome, Juniper.” Hestia acknowledged and honored her admissions - She had this beautiful habit of welcoming each newcomer, of saying their name, of speaking them into their circle, and Harry let her familiar magic wash over him in greeting. 

The young woman, Juniper, Harry surmised, leaned back on the brushed velvet sofa, one cushion down from Alethea, exchanging her easy introduction for the chance to stare down at her ragged nails, cuticles bitten and torn. Harry watched the discomfort of the moment, the agony of the first meeting, settle around her, pulling at her skin. Her scraped knee, visible through the hole in her jeans, drawn up against her chest, a barrier. One that no one had thought to heal. 

Juniper didn’t speak the rest of the hour, and neither did Harry. Though, both of them startled mid way through a newcomer talk about withdrawal to watch Flea nearly knock over an antique vase in the corner of the room. Black family heirloom, most likely. Sirius would have been thrilled. They had both had to stifle their laughter, and Harry caught Juniper’s gaze as she dropped her hand from her mouth, the smile still half formed on her face. 

So many years after the war, and she could see thestrals. Harry sighed, and did his best to focus back on the conversation at hand. 

Hestia coaxed the room into a discussion on redefining relationships within sobriety, finding new friendships, leaving behind people who weren’t supportive. It was something Harry had struggled with in the early months, telling Ron and Hermione, opening up to those he needed beside him when the days were dark, building his life around meeting schedules and a structure that did not leave too much room for boredom. He needed all those rules to stay alive.

Now though, now he had felt the room to be less rigid with his daily life. The meetings still held sway, and the support of his closest friends was key, but he felt capable, at least. He had been tested, had been through the hellfire of days that ate away at his rawest parts, and he had persisted. He had survived the forest fires of his own making. And Draco, Harry mused, Draco had been there for it all, a respite in the many storms. Just as cursed, as tormented, as he was, and just as intent on surviving. Draco, though, Draco struggled to step away from all the rules he made for himself. All the careful caring, tight and sinister. 

They were at opposite ends of the war again, somehow calling to each other, seeking a moment’s peace in the middle. 

Harry let himself wander away from the discussion a bit, thinking of all the ways that Draco shared his life with him. How entwined they were. The place of safety they had built, together. The trust. 

Flea nuzzled his untidy mop of black hair from behind his chair, as if chiding him for slipping away from the meeting, for letting his thoughts wander too far. Juniper was staring at him from across the room, an eyebrow raised. Harry shook his head ever so slightly. It was not a discussion for now, not when their focus was meant to be with the others. The others, who were so used to his thestral companion they hardly even bat an eye at his heavy footfalls and indignant snorts. Harry shooed him away, issuing his second silent apology to Hestia, who only rolled her eyes. 

Alethea led much of the repartee after that, her own addiction making her prone to chronically supplementing lasting connections with those that are fleeting, shallow or convenient. In the last month, she’d had homework to reconnect with friends and family she had removed from her life who were supportive of her, and to try and focus on strengthening those bonds, revitalising them. Hestia had beamed at her, and Greg had congratulated her on having the strength to be honest with family, since that isn’t as easy as many of us would like to think. 

Hestia closed the meeting with some house rules for the newcomers from St. Mungos who would be staying, with a schedule for the week ahead, therapy contacts and medication needs, and Greg tidied up the remnants of snacks, crumbs and detritus that lay about the room, Dennis was leaving flyers of resources along the sideboard. It was a well oiled machine, at this point. Harry felt a bit superfluous. 

He wandered into the tea room and out into the garden, taking a seat beneath the blackthorn, mulling over the words of the adder at the door. Over his own muddled thoughts on sobriety and recovery. 

The clip of heeled boots came from inside, and Hestia was gliding through the house and into the garden, alighting beside him, the dormant flowers behind her valiantly stirring to life in the wake of her, little vines and tendrils reaching out toward her, growing, as heliotropes are want to do, toward the sun of their world, even in the chill of the season. 

Hestia sighed deeply, her hands now in her lap, picking at a loose thread in the hem of her burgundy dress. Her crown of yellow roses looked heavy rather than joyful. 

“Tell me, Hestia.” Yellow and orange leaves from the tree above them floated down beside them, the winds of autumn stirring the upper branches. 

“I didn’t expect today to feel like it did. To be so personal. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve felt so hurt by someone else’s story. By their pain.” Hestia wasn’t here to lie or pretend she didn’t need him to listen. She was direct, clear. Unencumbered by doubt or disease with sharing. 

“Juniper?” Harry asked softly, watching Hestia’s black nails run along the fabric, teasing errant threads and defects in the cloth, his magic throwing privacy spells up around them without much thought. 

“She’s so much like Flora.” Hestia shook her head and looked up into the changing leaves of the blackthorn, and Harry could see the brightness in her eyes, deep and amber and beautiful. She felt raw in the moment, and her magic rumbled, awash with the pain of it. 

“Your sister?”

“My twin.” Hestia dropped her gaze and looked to Harry, the saddest of smiles crossing her beautiful face, an expression so rare, so uncommon for her features, always so fortified with daring and cleverness, with resilience and power. 

“We are the same in looks and in history, but Flora, she always had a larger heart than I did. She was kind and soft and gentle with every living thing. From the time we were children, she used to cry for snails who found themselves lost outside the protective furls of the water plants by the pond. She’d carry them to the arum lilies and sneak them into folds of ferns. She’d rescue errant ants and drop them back in the grass where they’d be safest. She’d find all manners of life, out in our garden.” 

Harry watched her as she spoke, her right hand now coming to lay across her chest, black nails splayed along her collar bone, as if holding back all the memories she kept deep within her chest. 

“She learned of cruelty young, too. We both did. By the time we came to Hogwarts, we knew what was expected of us. I felt I belonged in Slytherin, though, hungry and ambitious. It suited me. But Flora, she followed me to that house, I think because she was afraid of being alone. Of being different. Of being the only child of summer in a house of snakes.” 

Hestia’s black nails pressed against her skin as her fingers curled under, as if all that hurt lay just there, as if she could just reach in and claw it out for good. 

“She bottled herself up. She bottled all that love and kindness and that heart full of caring, and hid it I don’t know where. She became someone she thought we all wanted her to be, cold and dead where life once flourished. Animals used to find her, you know? Rabbits and little voles from the fields in the hills. Once, I woke up to a fox curled up at the end of her bed.” She smiled to herself, lost in the memory. “They’d find her. Not anymore.” 

Harry let the quiet between them settle into the scattered leaves and the beds, ready for rest beneath the snows of winter. Hestia’s sadness settled between them, too, thick and plain. A hurt without answer, without treatment or cure. She dropped her hand back to her lap and took a deep breath. 

“Juniper.” Harry said again, nodding to himself. Juniper was Hestia watching her sister transform again, right before her eyes. Juniper was the summer child, lost and cold in a world that wasn’t home. 

Hestia nodded. 

“She’s found us, Hestia. She’s found a home where she can make her own way. She is not lost to us.” Harry said softly, knowing that it was not always so simple, so clean. But, knowing too that they would do their best. That the souls who found their way to Grimmauld Place would know love. Would know care. Would know that this was a place to grow through the pain, to grow through the pain and into your truth. 

Harry reached out and held Hestia’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“She found us.” 

 

_______________

October 20, 2009

It was early in the next week by the time Harry found himself walking up the long central street in Hogsmeade, dragon skin bag at his side, his heart full of love and trepidation in equal parts. He greeted the shopkeepers and patrons, shuffling about in the soft powdery snow that had fallen in the night, and they greeted him, sometimes with great affection and sometimes with awe, stilted and staring. Aberforth Dumbledore merely grunted in his direction, busying himself with clearing the snow from his doorstep, a very irritated looking cat peering around the edge of the door jam behind his greatcoat. 

He didn’t often walk through the village, preferring to apparate into the front hall of Draco’s practice after hours or flooing into the great fireplace in the waiting room, not having been interested in catching the public eye and landing himself back on the front pages since his disappearance from the Aurors. But, today was a day for bravery, and Harry had made peace with the notion that he wouldn’t be able to hide in Draco’s shadow forever. Plus, with the fresh snow and the quiet of the morning, his odds of traveling relatively unnoticed were good. 

Once he stepped out from their side street and on to the main road, Harry found himself marveling at the little shops that had sprung up, re-opened and revitalised after the chaos of the war, places he had never stopped to consider the few times he had returned this far North in his work with the Aurors. Of course, Honeydukes, The Three Broomsticks and Scrivenshaft’s were the same as ever, institutions of the village that they were, but little bay windows full of magic and intrigue had sprouted up, painted signposts and spelled banners advertising the wares within. 

Harry passed a dark little corner shop, windows heavy with purple velvet, fine golden instruments, impossibly detailed, thin and delicate, whirring and spinning on individual display stands. Fanciful black script was just readable on a little embellished card, stuck against the window glass. Leaning closer, Harry read  _ Magic is without time or place, without want or need, without rhyme or reason - until, that is, it finds you _ . To the left, another read  _ Death comes for each of us in turn.  _

The desire to stop in and enquire about the esoteric messages and the instruments that seemed oddly familiar (had he not broken one of those spiraling globes in Dumbledore’s office?) was decidedly fleeting in the light of the ominous tone of the cards, so close to a part of himself he didn’t want to explore, not now, not this morning. He shook his head and hurried on, letting himself be quickly distracted by the shop immediately next door, not wanting to linger, as the instruments had all seemed to vibrate in renewed intensity at his approach. 

The adjacent shop was painted in dark forest greens with soft golden accents, windows full of growing things, odd flowers of dark purple and indigo, twisting vines that swayed, seeking something of which to grab hold. The large sign hanging above a wood and glass door was carved with a fat and familiar spotted toad, a roundly disapproving expression in the way he peered down from prominent black eyes, set high on his rather dignified head, his webbed feet just resting above the words  _ Longbottom’s Magical Herbs and Fungi _ . 

Harry could feel Neville’s subtle magic pouring from beneath the old wooden door, soft and earthy, tilled soil, rich with life, hot and humid and strange in the wintery world, so reminiscent of a greenhouse. He caught the seraphic smells of wet leaves in summer storms, drenched and swollen with life, and he could sense Hestia’s magic in the swirling steam and the beautiful blooms of white bell flowers, the deep reds and golds of an orchid, tall and defiant. He smiled to himself, letting the tendrils of that careful loving spellwork twist about his booted feet, the snow beyond the door long since melted. The vines in the window seemed to wave farewell as he walked on from the little garden of eden, thick with it’s own esoteric magic. 

Harry made his way past the Hog’s Head and the little post office, and then the meandering side street that housed Madam Puddifoot’s, the sun gaining strength in the sky and the glare of the snowfall reflecting about the little village, the wind soft and idle around corners, occasionally creating little plumes of snow, swept back up into the air from the ground. 

He stopped briefly outside The Gorgon’s Apothecary and Potion Supply, adjusting his dragon skin bag, the weight of the twin’s monument ever present at his side, just heavy enough to remind him that Fred and George once dreamed of opening a shop here. They had dreamed of their future, bright and happy and mischievous, a place to stow away the horrors of war and lose yourself in friendship, in camaraderie. In laughter. 

Harry sighed and looked up into the grey blue of the sky, just catching sight of the dipping and gliding of a thestral in flight, high up in the wispy thin strips of clouds, the sun catching the shine of his leathery skin. He adjusted the bag again, turning the collar of Sirius’ jacket up against a new gust of wind, more chilling and biting, more foretelling of the winter ahead. Harry let his magic warm him, soft and tempered, the coals of a long burning hearthfire, and continued on. 

He trudged up the gently climbing hill that sloped away from the village and toward the Hogwarts grounds, into the more wild bits of forest and wilderness that edged the castle, passing between the giant winged boars that flanked the ancient gates, full of centuries of magic that felt as solid and strong as stone, yet that greeted him with recognition, always welcome to his return. It was, after all, home for the child who had needed it. A lost boy, like so many others.

He heard Flea screech in greeting to another thestral, soaring out into the world above the forbidden forest, abandoning Harry to make his own way up to the school. He spotted Hagrid teaching a Care of Magical Creatures class in the distance, gesticulating wildly over the heads of comparatively miniscule students, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws by the looks of things, maybe third years, still spindly, but so earnest. Eager. 

Further up the path, two Ravenclaw boys, clearly late to the aforementioned lecture, hustled past him on their way down to Hagrid’s hut, arms full of rolls of parchment, a few books, and a quill stuck haphazardly in the taller one’s hair. 

“Come on, Thaddeus, we’re so late already. It’s ten past nine, for Rowena’s sake. I can’t believe I let you talk me into skipping breakfast to research Venus’s position in relation to Mercury. I don’t care about your love life. I really don’t. I don’t care how many times you get hit with the jelly legs jinx, you deserve it.” 

“Hey! That was Har-” 

_ Langloc  _ reverberated around Harry’s mind, silent and wandless. 

“I don’t care, Thaddeus. Don’t speak to me for the rest of the lesson. Venus isn’t the problem, it’s your personality, honestly. How could you think a charm would fix her opinion of you? You have no one to blame but yourself.”  

Harry made his way up to the front entryway, stifling his laughter, hurrying away from the pubescent drama and his potential notoriety. If it was only ten past nine, he was early to meet the Weasleys, and he slowed as he approached the entryway to the castle, the giant wooden doors welcoming him, the magic of Hogwarts pooling and swirling in every moment of the immemorial stone walls, drawing him in. 

He paused in the atrium, drinking in the same rush of history that accompanied every visit he made to the castle, the magic, the lives that had been lived here. He sighed as soon as he felt the whispers of Dumbledore’s magic, light and airy and breathy, deceptive in it’s atmospheric quality, as if it could not be heavy, be burdensome, be harsh. 

Harry sighed and turned to the great hall, wanting to move away from the memories, from the questions, from the anger that had sprouted deep within him, from the conflict that still grew there, nurtured by those who, unlike the living, could no longer answer for their actions. 

Harry stepped into the empty hall, drinking in the enchanted ceiling, the staff table where McGonagall would have welcomed students to the new year, to the house tables. Gryffindor, at the end, loud and brazen, forever alight with the fire of youth. Next to it, Hufflepuff, bright and bubbling with love and loyalty, yellow as sunshine. 

Harry stopped himself, mid reverie. The great hall wasn’t empty. Hufflepuff table was occupied. A single, tiny solitary figure, bent over the far end of his house table, his head laying across his hands, a shock of bright blue. 

Harry’s stomach clenched, the wind knocked right out of him. 

Teddy. 

Edward Remus Lupin, who must have just turned 11, was sitting just there. The child of Tonks and Remus. Harry’s godson, whom he hadn’t seen in years. A child that Harry had been too young to know how to care for, that Andromeda had took in to raise on her own. A child who filled Harry with guilt, with remorse. A child born into the pain and suffering of the war, and who had needed him when he was too broken to care for even himself. 

Harry sucked in a deep breath and let his feet carry him down the hall and to the Hufflepuff table. He stopped and cleared his throat, standing awkwardly just next to the pale and lanky boy who had raised his head to look at him. Who looked so much like his father. Like his father before the scars. 

“Can I sit with you?” Harry was indicating the bench beside Teddy, he was dropping his bag down to the floor, he was smiling and pouring love and warmth and apologies he didn’t know how to even begin to write into the space between them. 

“Okay.” Teddy was turning to face him, taking in his boots and leather jacket. 

“Do you remember me?” Harry had swung his leg over the bench and was facing his godson, not sure how or where to start, but so sure he was on the right path. 

Teddy shook his head, eyes wide, appraising Harry’s face, memorising his features. His eyes were big and beautifully amber. 

“That’s ok, we knew each other when you were very young. My name is Harry. I used to come by Andromeda’s to watch you or to play. I haven’t been by to see you in years, though and that’s my fault. I’ve been… unable to visit.” 

“Were you sick?” He was looking up at Harry expectantly, hair bright and brilliant and in that moment, full of curiosity, he lost the sadness that Remus carried and burst with all the excited questioning of Tonks. 

Teddy’s question had caught Harry off guard, and Harry smiled. Was he sick? In a way, yes. The war, and everything that had come before that, had hurt him, and not just in the way where he had broken bones or needed blood replenishing potions. It had hurt his ability to give love, his ability to feel safe. It had made him believe he was dangerous, not deserving of love or safety. Only solitude. 

“In a manner of speaking. But, I am doing much better now.” 

“That’s good. Dromeda always says you shouldn’t go over to friends if you’re sick, so I understand.” He nodded, wise in his many years. 

“That’s very good advice. Is that why you’re here in the great hall by yourself?” 

“No. I’m here because the other kids were making fun of me and I started crying and Dromeda always said if you get overwhelmed it’s ok to take a break.” He had shrugged it off, as if it was nothing. As if bullying and tears were to be expected. From other Hufflepuffs, no less. 

“Why were they making fun of you?” Harry frowned, stiffening on the old bench, his nails making small marks in the ancient table. He felt his magic flare protectively, and he had to focus a moment on making sure Teddy felt nothing but a gentle calm. 

“Because I was asking Professor Sprout about my mom. Grandma always said my mom loved being in Hufflepuff and I wanted to know more about her, since I’ve never been around so many people who knew her when she was young.” Teddy was shrugging and rambling and used his sleeve to wipe at his nose, which was still a bit runny from crying earlier. “And Professor Sprout told me about all of the pranks and jokes she used to get up to. And how clumsy she was. And I miss her. And she died here.” 

He looked up at Harry, his eyes still wide, and the sadness of Remus settling on his features, mixed with the curiosity of Tonks, a child split between the two. And Harry’s heart hurt for him. 

“It’s ok to cry when you miss them, but I want you to know that your parents both wanted happiness for you. They wanted it so much. Happiness and safety and love.” 

“I know, Harry. Grandma tells me all the time. I’m going to go back to class now, we have Flying next and it’s my favorite.” 

He hopped off the bench and regarded Harry, who remained sitting, both of them now the same height. “I like your jacket,” he said, and tottered away, limbs long and awkward, his hair bright. 

Harry watched him go, another child who could have found themselves in the company of Hogwart’s lost boys. 

“Thank you.” He said, long after Teddy was out of earshot. He picked up the dragon skin bag and headed back out into the hall to await the arrival of the Weasleys, whos loud voices and Ginny’s laughter he could hear coming up the steps. 

 

__________

“My boys.” Mrs. Weasley was sobbing against Charlie’s chest, figure slack with the years of pain, of the grief, bottled and stored in all of her empty moments, her hands both curled into fists over her heart, as if the two of them were just there, where she had been keeping their memories safe. Charlie was holding her up, swaying softly, shushing her. 

They had come up to the corridor where Fred and George had once left a massive, bubbling swamp. Where memories of their magic still peppered the walls and floor, still floated about like the reflective shine of dust, disturbed by the wind. Here, just outside the Defense against the Dark Arts room, just down from the Charms corridor, here is where Harry had decided to affix a monument to their bravery. 

He had showed them all, the whole Weasley family - Bill, Charlie, Percy, Ron, Ginny and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley both - the slab of sneezewood, fickle by nature but the light grain smooth and eager to be put to use, streaked with grey. The hyaena had laughed, the coyote howled, and Ginny had been the first to really cry, her sunny demeanor falling away amid the love she had for her brothers, and Bill had pulled her in close, smoothing her long red hair, tears running haphazardly across his scarred face while she let the memories of the twins rent her heart open with big, hiccoughing sobs. 

In the moments that followed, Percy, who had been staring, open mouthed, chin quivering, had found himself swept up into a crushing embrace from Mr. Weasley, who’s stoic visage was cracked, his eyes squeezed shut, his love for his third son so huge. 

And there was Ron, the first to laugh, grabbing Harry and pulling him into a hug, tears of joy and forgiveness and peace. After all these years of holding fast to guilt, to heartache, Ron was letting it fall away. Harry could feel each of the seventeen pages he had memorised fall away as Ron finally let himself laugh for the memory of the twins. For the power of them. 

The monument, which had taken Harry the longest to craft so far, was permanently stuck to the wall of the castle, and radiated magic in just the little strip of corridor it occupied, so that anyone who passed by close enough, would know the gigantic hearts and endless cleverness of the twins. Harry had captured the fierce loyal, protective and bonded nature of them, making anyone who passed by instantly reach out, full of fielty, and full of the desire to get up to great mischief together. 

Ron released Harry and stepped back, looking up at the plaque. A deep sigh escaping him. 

 

Fred and George Weasley

_ Let there be laughter, even in the darkest of times.  _

 

“It’s brilliant, Harry.” He wiped his nose, looking over at Percy, who was still clinging tight to his father, a smile broad on his face. “It’s them. Through and through. As they deserve to be remembered.” He laughed, surprised at his own outburst. “God, I want to replace everyone’s wand in this castle with a fake one. Imagine the chaos.” 

“Imagine.” Bill’s voice was soft and he was still rocking Ginny softly, still stroking her hair. “The ideas they used to have. The sky was the limit. Nothing could ever stop them from a laugh. And now, Harry, now they get to keep doing it.” 

“They were incredible, weren’t they?” Mr. Weasley was wiping his ruddy cheeks, arm still around Percy’s shoulders. Percy had taken off his horn rimmed glasses and was charming them purple, giving the rims little feathers. He slipped them back on and looked over to his father, who burst out laughing, renewed tears on his cheeks, laden with joy this time. Percy let a shy smile cross his features.  

Harry laughed openly at Percy’s idea of acceptable mischief. Bill and Charlie joining in, pulling each other closer, Mrs. Weasley reaching over to hold tight to Ginny’s hand, smiles replacing the rush of grief, the flood of tears. Ginny had charmed Mrs. Weasley’s ears to release big, beautiful bubbles to slowly balloon out and drift off into the hallway. Bill had nicked a shiny new galleon out from behind Charlie’s ear. 

Reveling in the lightness, the carefree way in which they stood together, united in their healing, Harry’s heart felt full. It felt good to be be able to bring love and hilarity back to the Weasleys, a family who had spent so long heartbroken, struggling for normalcy. A family that spent every April 1st drowning in the loss, in the pain. 

Maybe, maybe next year would be different. Maybe Molly would be able to walk by their old bedroom door without feeling the icy vice around her heart. Maybe Arthur would laugh again, maybe this time at Percy’s new penchant for tomfoolery. Maybe Charlie wouldn’t be so afraid to come home, so full of guilt, so painfully aware how absent he was when his family had needed him. 

Maybe this death herder thing wasn’t so bad, after all. 


	19. Guarded and Unguarded

October 20, 2009

 

At 10:55 am, Draco was inking the last of his notes into a file with his eagle owl feather quill as the front door swung shut with a sonorous thud. Little old Mrs. Diedry, his last patient of the morning, had taken much longer to examine than he had anticipated, and had asked enough questions to test his saint-like patience. Standing in his suddenly silent clinic, he ran cold fingers through neat hair and sighed heavily, letting his professional mask fall for a few moments.

He was running late, but he couldn’t motivate himself to move any faster.

The gentle simmering hiss of the cauldron behind him was soothing in its familiarity, and the smell of herbs, snakewood and anise seed, clean wooden floors and antiseptic spells filled his nostrils as he breathed deeply, tapping his quill absentmindedly on the file before him.

Mrs. Diedry was an interesting case. She had inherited a blood curse from her father’s line that should have killed her when she was young, but she had held on to 76, it seemed, through sheer spite. Sharp as a razor, and keenly observant, she said she came to see Draco because he was the best, and she believed he could see her through another few decades. Draco hoped that he was up to the task, and had a theory he would need to discuss with Neville about African wormwood and its uses with thestral tail hairs.  

He wasn’t looking forward to meeting Harry at Hogwarts. His work allowed him the blissful distraction of avoidance. He could get lost in potion brewing, spend hours scratching furious notes on theories, scattering dozens of sheets of parchment across his desk. He didn’t want to face the Weasleys in their state of heartbreak. He would rather pull his herbal encyclopedia down from the shelf and lose himself in reading about African wormwood. He certainly didn’t want to see Charlie today. He didn’t want to be seen by the students. He wanted to let his potions room swallow him whole where he could absorb himself in something that nourished his mind rather than making him want to peel his skin off.

He didn’t want to see Dumbledore today, with his enigmatic knowingness, nor did he want to discuss his relationship with Harry with _any_ of his former teachers. The absoluteness of the impending embarrassment washed over him again, and he looked quickly around the room for something else to focus on, spinning the quill in his hand with unnecessary speed, avoiding the moment when he would have to apparate to the Hogwarts gates.

He dropped his quill and closed the file when he realized he was flinging bits of ink all over his desk. Sighing in frustration, he looked down at the worn grain of ancient walnut. He had found the beautiful piece at an estate sale in Kent. He had nearly fought an old lady for it. Using his wand he cleaned the specks of smudged ink before running his hands over the smooth wood.

Perhaps he would walk, he reasoned, tapping his fingers on the desk. Give himself more time to work off his excess nerves. Postpone the inevitable.

It was incredibly childish of him, and yet, he couldn’t seem to force himself out of it.

He stood from his desk, stretching and scratching fingers through his mussed hair. Turning around, he faced the brewing bench that lined the wall opposite his desk. The bench itself held a row of large cauldrons, in varying stages of brewing, steeping, and curing. On the wall behind the brewing bench were a set of stacked shelves, on which rested a rapidly growing collection of bonsais.

He had taken to propagating a few species as a bit of an extra hobby, encouraged by Neville, who had recommended specific ones to keep by his brewing station, near his cauldrons, for the sole purpose of helping maintain air quality while he brewed. The beautiful trees in their shallow pots breathed in the vapours of the potions, maintaining an adequate level of safe breathing air, and prevented cross-contamination.

This was a life-saving tip, as this back room had but one small window and otherwise poor ventilation. It was so very different from his set up in the forest, where his low bench had sat beneath a large window that looked out at the little field of wildflowers before the line of ancient gnarled trees. The vaulted thatch ceilings had been specifically designed to whisk away noxious fumes, as it had originally built for potioneering. Sometimes, he had even had occasion to move his set up outside to the garden where the wind would carry the steam away and he could work in the clean air of the forest, surrounded by the smell of damp earth and the sounds of life.

There was no such luxury in Hogsmeade, and the single window he had now in his narrow, dreary office, looked at the brick siding of his neighbour. Not a leaf of green nor blade of grass to be seen. The wistful memories of his forest dwelling made him ache.

Pulling himself from his maudlin spiralling, he began his checks with several of his _Dracaena_ species, those whose smell he couldn’t resist. Next, was the _Celtis africana_ with mottled bark and, sensing the coming winter, a cascade of falling yellow and brown leaves into its purple tray. To the left was the _Ficus sur_ , with its fat trunk and roots nearly bursting from its black and golden pot, a few rogue roots sneaking its way into its neighbour’s soil.

The _Kigelia africana_ had reached an impressive 30 cm in height, despite the fig’s lack of boundaries, and bore a single, blood red, large cupped flower, unique in the arboreal world in its design and colour as it was meant to draw its unusual pollinator - a bat. Its leaves were hard and waxy, protected by a jagged edge, and Draco, unable to resist, leaned in to caress the drooping blossom. He touched each tree in turn with doting hands, and, seeing that they, indeed, were all safe and happy, he finally admitted to himself that he had nothing left to do but face the rest of his day. He pointlessly tried to flatten his hair in the small mirror on the back of his office door before conceding that he was only wasting more time, and, sighing audibly, finally opened the door.

He marched dutifully out of his backroom to close up shop. He scolded Voileami for rooting through a potted tree fern in the corner, dirt scattered about the floor, and, incriminatingly, her face.

“I can’t deal with you right now.” He huffed impatiently as he turned resolutely from her incredulous stare to focus instead on the coat rack before him, muted hues of wools and cashmere, most bought from the poshest of stores, though some, the most loved items, knit by his own hands.

He pulled a dark, greyish green scarf off its hook and, in a moment of painful nostalgia, buried his face into it. It smelled like the cottage, of wood smoke and of dried hanging herbs, sweet and dutiful. He remembered the day he plucked the plants from their garden home for the dye bath. Late July had been hot and humid, and the egg-eater had been sunbathing on the garden path when Draco had stepped out that day to find what he needed. It was visceral, the memory. Tangible. There in his hands.

The scent of sage and artemisia had clung to his clothes for days after the wool had been dyed and washed. The pungent and woody aromas permeating his very skin that week. His fingertips held the greyish tinge for days and his nail beds had taken two weeks to lose their green hue. Harry had watched him pensively those few days, considering him with great intensity, as Draco dried his newly green wool and crafted it into something soft and warm, with all the mistakes of a then-novice knitter, slightly lumpy and skew.

Shaking himself from the sweetness of the memory, lest it pull him down into its warmth and prevent him from leaving the house, Draco wrapped the scarf soundly around his neck. Letting its weight settle around his shoulders soothingly. Pulling on his winter cloak, he took a moment to centre himself.

Closing his eyes, he felt the talisman in his pocket. He pressed it into his palm, feeling its familiarity and safety radiate up his arm in recognition. In his other pocket, his fingers brushed against a worn post-it. Words faded over the last few weeks.

 

_We are safe._

 

Stepping out into the bleak light of the day, the shock of cold wind slapped him in the face as he pulled the front door shut and locked it behind him. The chill shook him from his melancholy and he hurried down the steps, following the same footprints that Harry had left a few hours earlier. He followed the shapes Harry made in the light dusting of snow to the pavement and turned towards the high street, where the tread became lost in the bustle of village life.

He felt a bit exposed, the weak early winter sun breaking through grey clouds, the wind whipping his hair out of place, carrying distant voices and sounds of fellow Hogsmeade inhabitants shuffling through their daily lives. He walked determinedly forward, head held high, even when the cold and his crippling self-awareness made him want to hunch in on himself.

As he approached the Hogshead, Aberforth violently swung the door open to the street, a slinky cat dallying on the threshold, “In or out, you wretched thing! In or out!” He was shouting at the creature, who gave no notice of his irate tone or menacing stance, rubbing itself leisurely on his leg.  

When he saw Draco approaching he grunted, “Morning Malfoy” before continuing his angry tirade at the feline that ceaselessly danced undecidedly in the door frame, cold wind billowing the pub owners raggedy grey robes.

“Morning.” Draco inclined his head, grinning slightly at the irritating cat that ceaselessly wound itself around Aberforth’s legs, content with torturing its owner with indecision.

Aberforth was the only person in the village who would greet him openly. Draco always appreciated it, feeling immense gratitude towards the slightly alarming man. He made Draco feel less alone. Less of an outcast. Most people avoided him out of fear or disgust, or a simple desire not to consider him at all. Most shop owners politely tolerated his existence, greeting him only when absolutely necessary, while others still were openly hostile, refusing to let him forget his past. As if he ever could.

The sign creaked ominously in the frigid wind and he saw a shadow pass over him; Voileami had taken flight towards the castle. Soaring high above him, leading the way it seemed.

Several shop goers crossed the street upon recognizing his familiar Malfoy features, and he began to doubt his decision to walk. His usual determination to get from point A to point B often painted his expression into one of haughty disdain, and despite his glower being an unintentional byproduct born of sheer anxiety and avoidance, he was sure did him no favours in the public’s opinion of him.

His mask kept him safe. Kept everyone out. Let him get through the world without having to engage in small talk or be faced with the fact that no one was willing to give him a chance. Each person passing him, hurriedly avoiding his gaze, giving him a wide berth, quickened his step forward. He walked with a hurried pace, giving himself no time to dwell.  

Turning left onto the high street, Draco glimpsed Gladrags Wizardwear. Mannequins draped in rich fabrics, classic and modern robes displayed neatly in the front window. An old woman, hand in hand with a small child bustled out of the shop, laden with packages of brown paper and twine in her spindly arms, bemoaned the cost of a decent travelling cloak. The child rambled animatedly about Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle, clambering after the old woman. She huffed in exasperation as they crossed the street and passed Draco, and she muttered under her breath about needing a brandy.

Lost in thoughts about the innocence of children and the exhaustion of age, he didn’t see the gentleman backing out of a coffee shop to his left. By the time Draco realized what was happening he was covered in hot coffee. The man had turned around and walked straight into Draco’s chest.

Both of them muttering profuse apologies, Draco ducked to help pick up the scattered and spilt coffee cups. Just as Draco was offering to compensate the man for his own lack of coordination, he saw dawning recognition cross his features. The jovial, apologetic person quickly morphed into a cold and sneering git. “Don’t want so much as a knut from the likes of you.” He spat, quickly righting himself and dropping the empty coffee cups at Draco’s feet. He turned and stomped off down the road.

Draco stood stock still for a moment, feeling distinctly hollow inside, before vanishing the mess at his feet and drying his robes with the flick of his wand. Despite the cold, he was hot and flush under his clothes, feeling observed and self-conscious of himself, a marked man in a crowd of ordinary and innocent people. He pulled his scarf more tightly around his neck out of habit and continued his resolute march forward, determined not to engage with another person if he could help it.

His spiralling thoughts carried him back to his boggart’s most recent form of torture. Thoughts he had been trying to push down all day, now crept up on him, his will power feeling fragile in the light of the day’s events.

It had been a full seven days since he thought he heard Harry mutter those two fateful words to him in a half sleep state. One week of Draco feeling completely out of his depths. One week of his boggart pulling his attention back to that night at every chance it could. Whenever his mind was most vulnerable.

Had Harry really said it? Had he meant it? Or had Draco been hallucinating? If he had said it, should Draco have said it back? Was Harry mad that he hadn’t reciprocated? Had he only said it because they had taken things to the next level in the bedroom?

Draco had been stunned into shocked silence to hear those two quiet words whispered against his skin, so stunned that he had stopped breathing. Harry was already asleep by the time Draco remembered how to exhale, and he spent the next several sleepless hours doubting whether or not it had really happened.

He let his boggart dance a familiar jig as he passed the post office with swiftness, the echoing hoots of owls and the smell of pine bedding following him as patrons strode passed through the swinging door, intent on their errands.

That next morning, Harry had given no indication that anything had changed, but didn’t say it again. Draco then spent the next seven days trying to figure out how to bring it up. How to say it back.

He had realized, with frightening, blinding clarity, that night, as he stared at the ceiling and felt Harry’s warm body, asleep against him, that he felt the same way. He had told Luna all those months ago that he loved Harry, but he didn’t think he even really knew what that meant back then. He had thought the words, sometimes, in the depths of night with Harry wrapped around him. Or, in the quiet moments sharing tea on the sofa. Or, in the thrill of sparring words and diatribes over what sheets to put on the bed. He had been thinking it for weeks. Months, now. But, how does he tell Harry?

Say that he really did love that _stupid_ man, with his dumb _hair,_ and his amazing eyes, and his compassion, and his strength?

Dear gods, he loved everything about him. His darkness and sharp edges, his radiance and resilience.

He loved the parts of Harry that Harry himself sometimes shied away from, embarrassed by their intensity and brokenness. Draco loved it all. All of his shadows and light. His fortitude and vulnerability. He loved him desperately, consumingly. He admired Harry for everything he had gone through, everything that he let Draco see and hold. He loved Harry for the faith he had in him, and humanity at large.

Harry felt like _home_. Like the home Draco had never had but had always wanted. The place you go to when you are weary and broken and in need of respite. Where you go when you want to share in your joys and victories. Full of acceptance and unconditional tenderness. Harry allowed him space to grow and bloom, tended the potential within him like a devout gardener.

To Draco, Harry embodied every kitschy and saccharine adage about love and family, found scripted on ghastly decor in second-hand shops. He made Draco want to buy floral embroideries that said ‘ _Home is where your heart is”_ and hang it on his front door. It was incredibly nauseating and decidedly overwhelming.

And he had no idea how to say it.

He quickened his step as he approached The Three Broomsticks, one of the last shops out of Hogsmeade. The mounting urge to curl in on himself, or pray for the ground to swallow him whole, as he neared the familiar red entry and swinging sign, intensified as the door to the pub was thrown open.

Madam Rosmerta swept the debris from the bar floor out onto the pavement and froze when she looked up and met his eye. Draco nodded dumbly but she did not reciprocate the greeting. She only stood and watched him pass, her broom held tightly in her pale hand, her eyes hard and demanding, as if daring him to try and come over her threshold again.

He would do no such thing.

Instead, he ducked his head, having succumbed to the wave of shame that poured over him, and his feet carried him quickly past. His apology back in 8th year to her did not go well, and he wouldn’t soon forget the ensuing tussle that ended in Rosmerta’s partner pulling her away from a retreating and black-eyed Draco, shouts to never darken their doorstep again following him out onto the street. No, he would not be approaching that threshold again in this lifetime. He could feel the burn of her eyes on the back of his head and braced himself for the possibility of an unforgivable.

How could anyone love him after all he had done?

He couldn’t relax his shoulders until well past the Hogsmeade station. He reminded himself for the 50th time since leaving the house that apparition was the only suitable form of transportation.

Draco was climbing the path to front gates, Voileami no longer in view. He was secretly hoping that he had been late enough to avoid seeing the Weasleys today. Not that he hadn’t grown incredibly fond of them, no, but that he was afraid of reminding them of who exactly he was. The role he played in their family’s heartbreak. He was afraid that Mrs. Weasley would look at him and decide he wasn’t good enough for her Harry. He felt the familiarity of his cowardice grip his insides. Despite the cold in the air, he was sweating again and knew his face must be splotchy with the effort of the walk and of the anxiety he felt welling within him.

He stumbled slightly on a rock in the path when he reached the winged boars. He had spent the entire walk up the sloping lane battling with his boggart on an incessant loop, and hadn't realized how fast he had been striding towards the castle. Righting himself, ready to move through the open gates, he caught sight of a mob of red hair between him and his destination and felt his insides freeze. Oh no, he thought, please no.

The pull of familiar and safe magic of the Hogwarts grounds around him did nothing to soothe the dread of imminent and awkward social interactions with people he had wronged. Especially when he desperately wanted those people to like and accept him. The sting of his interactions in transit still fresh in his mind. The wounds still raw. He was seriously considering whether or not he should hide behind the bushes off to his right when Ron caught sight of him and shouted a jovial greeting. _Son of a-_

“Hello.” He said as he swept dutifully towards them, in a voice that sounded stilted and strained, despite his best efforts to be warm and welcoming. His tone did nothing to put Ron or Mrs. Weasley off, but Charlie managed to look even more uncomfortable than Draco felt.

The cowardly part of him thought he might just try walking straight past them, as if he were in a hurry, and hope for the best, but this older self, the part that had been significantly galvanized by Harry’s existence, stayed his footsteps in front of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

Mrs. Weasley reached out to him and swept him into a crushing hug, her eyes red from recent tears, and she sniffled loudly onto his shoulder. Ron and Mr. Weasley patted him aggressively on the back in greeting, and Percy and Bill spoke loudly about god knows what. It was a confusing sensory overload. A common occurrence when near more than one Weasley.

When Mrs. Weasley pulled back to pat him on the cheek kindly, Draco felt the dam wall break in his chest as he looked her in the eyes.

“I know today mustn’t have been easy. And, I should have said this to you years ago, but I’m so sorry for the part I played in Fred’s, and subsequently George’s, death. For the things my family did. For the way I behaved.” He looked around at all of their surprised faces, Charlie’s eyes were fixed on him with a puzzled expression. “I’m not looking for a pardon, and I don’t want to make excuses for what I’ve done, but you deserve an apology. You’ve been kind in ways I didn’t think I deserved.”

There was silence, but Ron was grinning at him. Mrs. Weasley burst into fresh tears and hugged him again, startling him. Ron rolled his eyes and spoke over the sobs as Draco clumsily patter her on the back. “Mate, what happened happened, and we can’t change it. I know who you were and who you are now. You’ve changed. And you’ve become someone who I can be glad to call a friend. I know you’re not looking for forgiveness, but you already have it from me.” He clapped Draco hard on the shoulder as Molly finally released him, muttering her thanks before walking away from the group to blow her nose loudly, clearly finished with all of the emotions the day had presented.

“Thanks, Ron.” Draco muttered feeling a bit empty from his anxiety of the interaction. A faint buzzing of bees threatening in his periphery from all the eyes still on him. Arthur reached out to shake Draco’s hand, as did Bill. Percy nodded solemnly at him and Charlie continued to stare curiously.

“Thank _you_.” Ron said, squeezing his shoulder and looking at him meaningfully. “Harry’s waiting for you in the entrance hall.” He finished, as the rest of the Weasleys followed Molly’s lead. “He’s just having a catch up with Ginny.”

“I’d better get to it then.” His face felt hot and he was damp with perspiration, despite the chilly air invading his clothes. “I’ll see you all around.” He said and nearly ran from their midst, the echoing chorus of goodbyes following him.

He pulled his scarf tighter still around his neck trying to maintain his composure, as a gust of wind lifted his cloak and bit at his skin. It took all of his willpower to walk calmly forward along his trajectory and not sprint a lap around the castle to try and outrun the bees in his ears. He was trying to slow his breathing into deep measured draws and exhales, away from the gulping gasps that were threatening to overtake him.

The sound of Ginny’s enthusiastic voice spilling out of the door ahead, helped ground him as the sound of the others faded behind him. Nearing the steps, he saw a look of stilted hesitation on Harry’s face as he approached. His rigid posture piqued Draco’s focus and he let the adrenaline of his meeting with the Weasley’s drain away, replaced by hyper-focused concern.

Ginny was angled away from Draco and she didn’t see him approaching.“C’mon Harry, we haven’t had a catch up, just the two of us, in ages, we should go grab a pint tonight.” She was saying to Harry who was clearly having a hard time looking right at her, his body turned away, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other, his hands crammed into his pockets.

He was watching Draco’s progress up the steps with determined focus, his mouth in a thin line. His eyes flicked uncomfortably to Ginny at her suggestion before she caught her mistake.

“Or a butterbeer!” She laughed awkwardly. “Sorry, Ron did tell me. What do you do for fun now, anyway?” Draco cleared his throat to announce himself, saving Harry the necessity of answering Ginny’s decidedly stupid question. “Oh, hey Malfoy.” She said by way of greeting, her eyes surveying him shrewdly, before focusing back on Harry.

“Hello, Ms. Weasley.” He inclined his head and stepped up and into Harry’s personal space before facing Ginny. He could feel Harry’s magic, unsettled, discomforted, pulsing off of him in waves of unrest.

“Uhg. Don’t call me that. Gin is fine. What are you doing here?” She asked with a raised eyebrow as she watched Draco stand just slightly too close to Harry. Harry, who let out a slow breath, his magic settling, his shoulders dropping fractionally.

“He’s meeting me.” Harry said before Draco could answer. “We’re due by McGonagall in a few minutes.”

“I see.” Ginny said, eyeing Draco. “Well, we could go out when you’re done with Malfoy.” She pressed.

Draco shifted fractionally, unsure of himself, unsure of what Harry wanted in the moment. He didn’t know what to do with any of his limbs.

But, Harry’s hand found Draco’s, and his voice was stronger with more conviction as he turned his body fully to look at Ginny.

“No, sorry Gin, we have plans. Maybe another time.” He said flatly.

“Oh.” She looked momentarily surprised at their joined hands, even though she must have heard from the others by now that they were together. “Vayne and Skeeter are going to have a field day with this.” She smirked and Draco bristled. He felt his face heating again. Harry scoffed noncommittally, starting to relax into the awkward exchange.

“Well, okay then.” She looked pensive and torn by some internal struggle before moving forward and hugging Harry. He dropped Draco’s hand to reciprocate and sighed heavily. The last of his fight draining out of him. His magic retracting into gentleness. “Let me know if you change your mind about that butterbeer.” She said quietly, releasing him.

Giving Draco one last searching look, she said, “See you around, Malfoy”, before turning on her heel and walking down the steps.

Neither spoke until Ginny had reached the bottom of the steps and was a few strides away. Draco turned supercilious eyebrows on Harry and asked, “A pint?” with disbelieving incredulity.

Harry barked a dark laugh, his frustration and discomfort still evident in the way he held his balled fists pressed into his pockets with far too much force. “She means well.  It’s just-” Harry shook his head. Seemingly unable to know how to finish the thought.

Instead, he said, “You’re late. You’re never late.” His tone was accusatory, concerned.

“I- uh. I was busy.” Draco said evasively, looking anywhere but in Harry’s eyes, not wanting him to know how little he wanted to be here today. “And besides, Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t let me by without attempting to hug me to death.”

He reached out to smooth an errant curl from Harry’s disaster hairstyle as he huffed an endeared laugh at Mrs. Weasley’s expense. He was sure Ron would tell Harry what he had said to the Weasleys, but it felt too raw to bring it up now.

“C’mon, Minnie is going to be very displeased if we’re any later than we already are.” Said Harry, his voice brighter, he squeezed Draco’s hand and released it, turning towards the Headmaster's office. “Let’s get out of here before lunch starts and anyone realizes we’re still around. I had to hex a little Ravenclaw earlier. Completely unethical.”

 

_______________

 

Draco consistently felt like he was about to receive detention when he was in Minerva McGonagall's presence. He envied the relaxed countenance of Harry as he slouched in his chair, one leg stuck out, foot jangling, mouth full of chocolate biscuit, crumbs down his front. Envied the way McGonagall’s face softened when she looked at Harry, like she was surveying a favourite nephew.

Draco, conversely, sat perched on the edge of his seat, still as can be, his stomach roiling with unsettled magic and nerves as McGonagall aggressively offered him tea and a ginger nougat. Harry was snickering and watching the exchange fondly. Relenting, Draco nibbled on his nougat, too aware of the sound of his own chewing.

“So, Healer Malfoy, I hear you left St. Mungo’s in order to pursue more professional autonomy.” She prompted, pleased she had won the battle of wills over the tea and biscuits.

“That’s a nice way of putting it.” Draco smiled awkwardly, and her lip twitched in return. “Yes, I opened up my own practice in Hogsmeade. After shouting at my superior and storming out of St. Mungo’s.” He finished, blushing.

Harry sniggered and McGonagall actually did smile. “I’m glad to see you’re doing good work. Now, gentlemen, why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”

Harry began talking through his full mouth of chocolate digestive, explaining why they needed to speak to Dumbledore. Dumbledore, who wasn’t even in his portrait, knowing full well that they were here to see him. Dumbledore, who had never even told Minerva McGonagall of all the ways he had become entwined in the ethereal magic of loss and death, of life and love. Who had never told her anything at all, it seemed.

Draco’s irritation prickled at him while Harry gave McGonagall a full and detailed rundown of the events of the last year. About the forest, about Death Herders, the thestrals, the blood magic. About Sirius, the Grim, Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Her face held the consistent expression of mild apprehension throughout the entire explanation, and by the end of it, she looked tired and worn in a way Draco hadn’t seen since just after the war.

Her face only gave the slightest indication of surprise by way of a twitch in her eyebrow when Harry finally told her that he and Draco were together, after Draco allowed him to stay hidden in the forest the whole of the last year. McGonagall's eyes ticked momentarily to Draco, whose face, he was sure, was the colour of the Gryffindor banner. This was somehow his least favourite part of the entire exchange. Not only was he being outed to his former teacher and a room full of portraits, but his relationship was now on the table for scrutinizing. He really couldn’t fathom how today could get any more awkward or demoralizing, but, the day was young and he was on a roll.

He refused to look at Severus’ portrait while Harry spilt their situation out to McGonagall, not even glancing when he heard a stifled cough. His insides were writhing with embarrassment. He could just _imagine_ the look of smugness and _refused_ to give his godfather the satisfaction. His face felt hot and splotchy and he tapped his fingers compulsively on his knee trying to focus on Harry’s words and McGonagall’s reactions.

“So, that’s our predicament, professor.” Finished Harry. “That’s why we needed to speak to Dumbledore, since he was the last Death Herder and we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. But, it seems he didn’t think it was necessary to pitch up to our appointment.” Harry gestured to the empty scene behind McGonagall. He was apparently completely unfazed about cursing in front of McGonagall, and she seemed fairly used to it. Or, perhaps too shocked herself to chide him for it.

“I see.” McGonagall said pensively. “Well. I have to say, that is a lot to absorb. Not least of which, your personal relationship and the fact that Mr. Malfoy so effectively hid your whereabouts for so long. But, unfortunately, Dumbledore has been absent from his painting since I told him you were coming to see him. He seemed less than keen to discuss the subject.”

Harry’s magic radiated outwards defensively, his face pinched while his foot bounced ever more restlessly.

“Severus?” McGonagall turned to face Snape’s portrait. “You don’t happen to know where he’s hiding, do you?”

“No, Head Mistress. Dumbledore has many hiding places, even in death.” His withering tone dripped with sarcasm and Draco couldn’t help but glance to see the bored expression and the dramatically discourteous eye roll.

Minerva rolled her own eyes heavily in return. “Indeed.”

Harry let out a frustrated sigh and stood up. “May I?” He asked, gesturing to the vacant gold-gilded painting. It was the largest in the room and hung at eye level behind the desk.

“If you must.” She acquiesced, rising from her chair and moving out of Harry’s way.

Harry rounded the desk, nodding solemnly to Snape as he passed him on his way to Dumbledore’s. He stood before the empty painting, feet set wide as if in a fighting stance, as if he were preparing to duel, shadows of the Auror training and a role he’d held so long, but had never prospered under. McGonagall stood close to Draco, her magic felt controlled, precise. Unassuming but powerful. Like a master archer waiting to loose an arrow at a target. Draco let the feeling of her confident stance behind him anchor him as he watched Harry square off with an unassuming blank canvas.

Dumbledore’s portrait was beautiful and simple. Grey toned stone walls held a simple stain glass window depicting a phoenix in flight sat in the upper centre. Soft blue and purple tones painted a single velvet chair with curved wooden legs and a high back. A small and tidy desk held a single candle, a stack of parchment, and a quill and ink pot. It looked like a place one would go to sit pensively and ponder the meaning of life. A gentle fire flickered in the grate behind the chair and cast dancing shadows in the foreground.

“Dumbledore,” Harry said with all the authority and command of an Auror, speaking to the velvet chair, “I don’t have time for your mysteries today, we had an appointment.”

Silence. Harry sighed in irritation as the seconds ticked by.

“The least you can do,” he said more quietly, “after everything, is tell us what you know.”

Silence again.

Harry’s shoulders sagged as he continued to stand there, the seconds dragging into minutes. Finally, he turned around, disappointment etched on his face. As he began to round the desk back to Draco, they heard a sigh and the familiar voice, “I had hoped it wouldn’t be you.”

Harry froze, startled by the admission, before turning around to see Dumbledore walking into view from the side of the painting.

 _The man certainly had a flair for the dramatics_ , Draco thought. It was the first time he had really seen Dumbledore’s portrait, really seen his face, since his sixth year.

Suddenly he felt sixteen again. Sixteen and desperate. All of the terror and choices that had followed him felt heavy in the corners of the room. He felt numb as he sat still as a statue, breathing shallowly. He could hear Harry speaking, but it sounded distant and he was only dimly aware of what they were saying. He began counting the portraits that lined the walls to steady himself. He was trying very hard to stop himself from being swept away like a wayward balloon on a windy day.

When he came back to himself, it was sudden. The buzzing had subsided and Harry was sitting in the chair next to him. McGonagall had left the room, but he wasn’t sure when this had even happened. He felt Harry’s magic wrap around him like a weighted blanket, containing. Safe.

He breathed in sharply through his nose trying to shake the boggart and bees from the corner of his mind and focus back to the moment he was existing in. He wasn’t sixteen anymore. He faced different challenges now.

Harry was leaning towards him, “You okay?”

He nodded stiffly and shifted in his seat, remembering he had limbs and a body. His underclothes were damp with sweat again and his legs felt like jelly.

He looked back up to Dumbledore, who was watching them curiously.

“I’m glad to see you here, Draco. I hear you’re doing good things. Very good things, indeed.” Albus said kindly, like he was proud of Draco. Like Draco hadn’t plotted his murder once.

Draco nodded again, not knowing what to say. He could feel Harry’s eyes still on him and his magic around him. “Minerva speaks very highly of you. I think she’s quite fond.”

He tried a smile, but it might have come off as a grimace. Harry seemed to decide to take charge of the interaction, and Draco felt infinitely grateful.

“Dumbledore, did you know it would be us?” He asked.

“Honestly? No. I didn’t. I had a short list of names and suspicions, yes, and you, Harry, were on that list, but, as I said, I had hoped it wouldn’t be you.”

“Who else was on the list?” Draco asked, trying to anchor himself to the conversation. His voice coming out gruffer than he had anticipated.

Dumbledore sighed. “The Carrow twins, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, yourself Mr. Malfoy, and, of course, Harry here.”

“So, why us, then? Why us, if there were so many other possible candidates?” Harry’s voice had an edge of a plea.

“This is deep magic. Just like the power of love, infinite in its depths and capacity, so too is the power of death. The only explanation that I can offer you is that you have experienced realms of magic that had never been explored before. You, Harry, were Master of Death, and you both were keepers of the Elder Wand. You both chose death in your lifetime and you both hold an immense capacity for empathy. And, from what I can see you are both exceptionally gifted and powerfully magical wizards. Perhaps your affinity for one another, your strong feelings throughout your youth, the development of your bond in the forest, was a catalyst in your both being specifically chosen. These are not answers though, only observations.” He smiled kindly at them.

Harry let out a large breath he seemed to have been holding. Draco didn’t know how to process anything he had just heard. It didn’t give him any answers.

“This is not fate, Harry.” Dumbledore said. “This is magic we have no words to really describe. If you really want to know, I suggest you ask the thestrals.”

Draco scoffed a disbelieving note at the thought of trying to pry esoteric information from Voileami. The same fantastic beast that had her head stuck in a balcony guard rail just last week.

He could feel Harry’s mounting agitation, sure he was thinking along the same lines as Draco.

“Okay…” Harry ceded. “Say we do this. Say we take up the mantle. What do we even _do_? We can’t find any clarification on the job description.”

Dumbledore smiled wide, as if that were the question he was waiting to be asked. “You keep the balance, Harry.” he said simply.

Draco just barely stifled a groan. Barely.

Harry wasn’t nearly as adept at masking his emotions. He slid his hands over his face and through his hair. “From what I hear,” Dumbledore continued, “you’ve been doing an excellent job so far. Both of you.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked nonplussed. “I’ve been avoiding it entirely for the last 2 months.”

“Ah, but have you?” Dumbledore countered. When neither of them responded, he continued. “Twice, now, you’ve brought memorials to this school to honour those we’ve lost. You comfort those who grieve. Offer solace to those who are lost. You, Mr. Malfoy, you heal those who need it. Save those who can be saved. And both of you, have formed strong bonds with your thestral shadows, have you not? From what I hear, they seldom leave your side.”

“So,” Draco, drawled, trying to regain some of his composure, “Hermione was right. We’re already doing it. We’re already keeping the balance. The thestrals are just guiding us.”

Dumbledore just beamed at them. Harry had his fingers pushed into his eyes. He was slouching so far back in his chair that he was in fear of slumping down onto the floor. Draco could feel the exasperation rolling off him in great big waves.

“I can’t tell if I should be relieved or angry.” He finally muttered, pulling himself upright in his chair and leaning forward to snatch another biscuit off of the tray on the desk. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Tell me about Sirius. About Grims.”

The change in Dumbledore’s face would have been comical if it hadn’t been so disconcerting. As the old man’s weathered face appeared paler and more deeply lined, even in oiled brushstrokes, Snape stifled a cough before striding out of his own portrait without warning.

“I should know better than to ever keep anything from you, Harry.” He said solemnly.

“I dismantled the dark magic you used at Grimmauld Place.” He said evenly. “I know Sirius was a Grim. What I don’t know is _why_ you were trapping him there with blood magic. Why you needed him. I thought you, of all people, were against dark magic like that. The house was infested with it.”

He gazed out at them from his gilded frame, a look of profound guilt etched across his face.

“Before my plan for you to defeat Voldemort was underway, I had a different plan. One that would have spared your life and your need to go through what you did. I knew that if the plan fell on your shoulders, it would end in your death. I wanted to prevent that at all costs. It should never have been your burden to bear.” He was sitting now, in his velvet chair, looking tired and old. He leaned an elbow on the desk and rubbed wearily at his eyes behind the half-moon spectacles.

“That night many years ago, after you saved Sirius from the dementors,  just before I visited you in the hospital wing, I had the occasion to speak to Sirius. Up in the tower room, lost and afraid and full of grief and vengeance, I visited him, and I knew. A darkness that has run deep in the veins of the family Black had surfaced, one that had not been seen for centuries, brought out by the years of torment in Azkaban, by the pain and the bitterness and the guilt. Sirius had a grim wake inside of him, a creature that both protected him from the loneliest of thoughts, yet condemned all those he loved to death. The shadow of death. True loneliness, dressed up in power and glory.” Harry shifted slightly and Dumbledore stood again, pacing restlessly from one side of his portrait to the other. Seemingly unable to sit with the guilt he felt at what he was telling them.

“It was only after he came back to England in your fourth year that I had the second occasion to speak to him. By then, whispers in the darkest forests had come to him, had hunted him. Had called him grim and many other names, and thestral herders had chased him endlessly, working to trap them as their own. By then, Sirius had come to know what he was. Cursed. And bereft for it.”  Harry’s magic hummed in the air around them. He sat still save for his twitching foot, a fist jammed under his chin, his eyes hard on Dumbledore, considering.

“He came to me to help, sure that his new powers could be of use, but unsure of ways to use them. I offered him the binding ritual, offered him the opportunity to avenge his friend’s deaths. Make his wasted time in Azkaban worthwhile. I offered him the chance to destroy Voldemort in exchange for his own life. He agreed. He wanted to be of use, you know. And, he asked me to bind him to his ancestral home. Afraid that he might hurt others without magic keeping him there.” He stopped pacing, body turned towards Harry, his face imploring. Willing Harry to understand. To see why things had happened the way they had.

“If his service was willing, then why use dark magic to keep him?” Harry’s voice sounded cold and bereft.

“I wanted to use Sirius for his power, as Deather Herders are want to do with Grims. And Sirius wanted to help, but I was not forthcoming with what that meant, and he was unaware of the dangers it posed to him. I couldn’t take any chances in him backing out.”

“So, you trapped him?”

“I did what I thought I needed to do to protect you and the rest of the wizarding world, yes. I trapped him. I used ancient and dark blood magic to bind Sirius to my will. A Grim is the natural ally of a Death Herder, as are the thestrals, you see. But, they owe themselves to no one, they are not slaves to Death Herders. I used the blood magic to form and maintain a bond, so that he could not change his mind, could not leave. When a Grim and Death Herder form a bond, the two are able to access powers they wouldn’t have on their own, you see?”

Both Harry and Draco nodded.

“Did he know that I was next in line?”

“No. No one knew. No one could, or your life would have been in considerably more danger than it ever was. And, as I’m sure you remember, your life was in near constant peril.”

Harry breathed a humourless laugh. His magic was a tangle of sharp edges and Draco could taste the metallic tinge in the air and feel a dry heat prickling his skin.

“I bound Sirius to my will and Grimmauld Place with ancient Death Herding magic not used in centuries. It is a ritual for dire circumstances. To be used only in the face of apocalyptic evil. The balance must be maintained.” Dumbledore shrugged as if that was all the justification that was needed.

Harry shook his head, not in disbelief, but rather in pained understanding and deep anger. His foot was bouncing erratically again and he wasn’t looking at Dumbledore anymore. Draco felt hyper-aware of him and his magic, sending his own out in an effort to ground him. To remind him that they were safe.

“If he was bound to you and the house, then how was he able to leave the night he died?” He ran his fingers hard through his hair, his voice low.

“If there’s one thing I have tried to teach you over the years, what would it be?” Dumbledore asked, enigmatically.

“Not to trust the adults?” Harry bit back, without missing a beat. Draco couldn’t stop the surprised snort that erupted from him.

“I have a list a mile long of things you’ve taught me, Dumbledore, can you elaborate a little?”

“Love.” He replied patiently. “His love for you and his desire to protect you was stronger than any dark magic I could have placed on him.”

Harry’s foot stopped moving and he looked at the portrait with a hard intensity.

“I take full responsibility for Sirius’ death, Harry.” He said quietly. “If I hadn’t forced him into servitude, he would have never been in that situation. If I had been more available to you, you may never have been vulnerable enough for Voldemort to plant that false memory. It was entirely my failings that killed him.”

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t reply. His magic felt still. Like the silence before a storm. Draco knew by sheer instincts to change the subject and allow Harry some space to process the information in silence. “How do we protect ourselves. How do we keep this power out of the wrong hands?”

“Keep your enemies close and your secrets closer.” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling and his face the picture of dire warning.

Draco didn’t like the feeling that answer gave him. Hadn’t Harry mentioned Dumbledore’s secrets and lies being exactly what he did not want?

“How do we keep ourselves in balance? How do we stop ourselves from being like you?” Harry asked harshly.

A sound to the right drew his attention, and he saw Snape back in his frame, scoffing at Harry.

“Yes, Severus?” Draco asked mildly.

“Isn’t it obvious, Potter?” Harry’s name didn’t hold as much contempt in Severus’ voice as it once had, but it sounded sneering all the same.

“Enlighten me, professor.” Harry sighed.

“As Dumbledore said, you were, still are, the Master of Death. You owned all three Deathly Hallows. Were master of the Elder Wand. And, you gave it all up, willingly. You tossed aside the wand. You left the stone buried in the forest. And you only use your cloak for general _misdemeanours_.” His voice was nearly impatient in his explanation.

“You had the ultimate powers in your hands at seventeen, and you laid them aside in favour of balance, of normality. You are already a better Death Herder than Dumbledore could have ever been. Keep your humanity alive, and your ego in check, and you shall be _fine_.”

“Well said, Severus.” Nodded Dumbledore solemnly. “Like I’ve told you before, Harry, I knew at a young age that I could not be trusted with power, and yet I continually found myself in possession of it. And, every time I did, I abused it. You and Draco will do much better than I ever did.”

There was silence for a long moment while they digested the information. Harry seemed a bit stunned that Snape apparently paid him some kind of compliment on his morality.

“What about Grindelwald?” Draco finally asked. He felt a parallel between himself and Grindelwald. Pureblood ideology from a young age, a desire for power and control of the world around them. He didn’t want to end up like him. To become someone who sought false ideals, balance at any cost.

“Gellert was chosen before me.”Dumbledore answered, a regretful note in his voice. “I was only chosen after Arianna’s death. It was his title as a Death Herder that spurred his desire to possess the hallows. His fervour for the balance of the natural world at all costs is what drove him to such destructive lengths. We were both incapable of wielding the power we were given. From what I know, even after his incarceration, the thestrals never stopped visiting him.”

“Neither of you ever renounced your titles?”

“No. Neither of us did. We remained connected in that regard until our dying days.” He said sadly.

 

__________

 

Harry and Draco were silently descending the front steps as the bell for the last class sounded and the thundering of hundreds of feet began to fill the halls behind them.

“Do you ever miss it?” Harry asked quietly, watching Flea fly high above them as they walked down the sloping lawn to the gates.

“School?”

“Yeah.”

“Good gods, no. No.” Draco huffed.

“No?” Harry asked, curiously.

“Being completely in the care of adults who don’t know what they’re doing? Being filled with hateful ideology? _Puberty_? Good lord, no. Do you?”

“Well, when you put it that way.” Harry laughed. “Sometimes. Sometimes I miss it. It was home, you know? Probably will always be in a way. I’ve never really had that before.” He paused, mulling over his words. “I guess I’ve just been thinking of something Dumbledore told me once, _help will always be given at Hogwarts for those who ask for it._ The surety of that thought makes me miss it.”

“Maybe you’re the one who’s supposed to be giving the help now.” Draco offered.

Harry seemed pleased by the sentiment and spoke with a smile on his face. “I would like that.”

“And, maybe it’s not just at Hogwarts. Home is where you make it.” He said. Harry didn’t reply, but continued to smile, watching their feet as they strode across the lawn side by side.

They made their way through the gates with winged boars and Draco adjusted his scarf around his neck, loosening it.

“I guess Grimmauld Place and our brown, one room attic, don’t really count as home do they?” Draco asked after the silence stretched between them a ways. He was itching to take Harry’s hand in his, to stuff them both into his pocket for warmth, but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed or if they should.

“Ours?” Harry asked, surprise in his voice, turning his big green eyes on Draco.

“Hm?”

“You said, _our_ brown attic?” He clarified, a strange look on his face.

“Well… I mean. You’ve been there nearly as long as me, I guess I just sort of think of it that way.” He was fairly certain he was bright red again.

“Huh.” They lapsed into silence. The wind wasn’t as harsh and the sun had broken through the clouds, melting the dusting of snow that had fallen in the morning. The smell of damp ground and cold air reminded Draco painfully of the forest. A feeling, frightfully similar to homesickness, stole over him.

“Do you know where I felt at home?” Harry asked, voice soft and nostalgic.

“Where?” Draco queried, suspecting the answer.

“The forest.” He said simply, grinning.

“Me too.”

“Do you remember it this time last year?” His shoulder bumped against Draco, as if he too wanted to reach out and hold part of him, but didn’t know if he could, or should.

“Mm.” Draco smiled, remembering fondly. “I found the thestral cave. And you cast your new patronus.”

“Yours wasn’t long after.” Harry was also smiling. Draco bumped his shoulder into him in response. “Will we ever go back?” Harry asked.

“I’d like to.” Draco said quietly, hopefully. “Love to, actually. I really miss it. The eggeater is probably furious with us.” Harry laughed. “And, the garden is probably a disaster.” Draco ached with missing it. And, now that they were speaking openly about it, he was overcome with that crushing feeling of homesickness.

“Yeah, I’d love to look for carving wood in the Rowan grove again. Make marshmallows and sit on the fur rug by the fire. See Alice.” Harry’s voice was dancing that sharp edge of joyful nostalgia and sad longing.

Perhaps fueled by the overwhelming fondness for the forest, or the fact that his lacklustre, poop-brown flat with loose floorboards, and dodgy plumbing, was waiting for them at the end of the lane, “we should get our own place, together” spilt unceremoniously from his lips.

His face was immediately hot and he regretted his outburst almost instantly when silence met his words. Maybe that was too fast for Harry.

“I mean, of course, we don’t have to, I just thought, since you’re there every night anyway, and we both hate it-”

“I don’t hate it-”

“Oh, yes you do Harry, you haven’t even unpacked your box. It’s a horridly drab place. Unless, you don’t want to make it official, or permanent.” He finished, feeling terribly exposed and painfully vulnerable. Why did Harry always make him feel this way?

They were passing Neville’s shop and they could see him standing against his window display, standing intimately close to Hestia, speaking softly to one another, smiles big and bright and luminous in the soft dim lighting of the shop. She gently touched the outstretched leaves of a potted peace lily, Neville reached out and slipped his hand into hers. They looked nowhere else but at each other, as if the rest of the world could not possibly exist, couldn’t bare to interrupt the moment between them.

Draco barely took in the scene, his inner boggart having burst forth from its hiding place, doing cartwheels and setting off fireworks in his skull.

“I wish we could do that.” Harry’s gentle voice broke through Draco’s downward spiral.

“What?”

Harry nodded his head back towards where they had seen Neville and Hestia. “Hold hands. Be a couple without worrying about who will see. What they’ll say.”

Draco didn’t respond. He was in the middle of an emotional roller coaster. He didn’t know what Harry wanted, and he didn’t know how to ask.

“And, we are official, you _git_.” Harry chided. “Our closest friends know, don’t they?”

“Actually, no.” His voice was soft and Harry looked up at him, brow furrowed. “I haven’t told my mum, or Unice, or Pansy and Blaise.” Draco said slowly, watching his feet, feeling small.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t know what you wanted. If it was okay to tell people outside your inner circle.”

“Do you want people to know?”

“Honestly?” He was forcing himself to be honest, forcing himself not to say _no I’m chill, whatever you want to do, easy peasy_. He was forcing himself to be brave in the face of possible rejection. “Yes. I don’t want to live in secrets and lies.”

Maybe Harry didn’t want their relationship to be public knowledge. Maybe it was to stay a dirty secret.

To his immense surprise, he felt Harry tugging Draco’s hand out of his pocket, and warm, calloused fingers entwining with his own. Draco turned a shocked expression to Harry, who was smiling slyly at him, his own cheeks tinged in an embarrassed sort of flush.

“If you’re ready for the horrible things they’ll write about us, then so am I.” Harry said, squeezing Draco’s cold hand. His own fingers were freezing, but he felt too giddy to really care. He squeezed back, trying and failing to hide his smile.

“Nothing they write could ever be as devastating as the drivel I sold to Skeeter in our school days.”

Harry threw back his head, cackling loudly, and Draco’s heart felt full.

 

_________

 

That evening, when Draco came out of the bathroom after showering and donning his favourite thread-bare maroon sweater, the one that was too big for him and reminded him of brash Gryffindors, he found Harry sitting on the floor in front of Draco’s chest of drawers, his box pulled out from under the bed.

“What are you doing?” He asked, heading to the kettle. He set out two mugs and began the familiar tea ritual.

Harry sighed, not looking up at him as he rummaged through his scant belongings. “You’re right. I do hate this place. It’s drafty and miserable, and the windows shake when I walk too hard, and the shower is never hot enough, and the sun blinds me every morning. But,” he ran his fingers through his hair and sighed heavily, leaving his black locks standing on end, “you’re here. And, I want us to be together, and, until we can find a new home, together, I should probably unpack my stuff.” he gestured vaguely to his sad solitary box. 

Draco was watching Harry pull out the contents of his life onto the floor. No rhyme or reason to the organization. Just bold determination and a pile of unfolded pants.

Smiling, filled with a strange warm fuzzy feeling, Draco walked across the damnable creaky floor, over to where Harry sat crouched on the ground, and ran his fingers through untidy hair, trying to smooth it.

Harry leaned into the touch and Draco pulled out his wand. He waved it gently over the pile of unfolded clothes and scant few possession, a few books, carving tools, and a photo album. They all folded and stacked themselves neatly back in the box. Harry looked up at him with mock incredulity, “I can fold my own clothes you know, I am perfectly capable.” Draco laughed. “And, they’re supposed to go in the drawer, not back in the box. I’m trying to be romantic here.”

“Of course you are.” Draco smirked, offering his hand to Harry who allowed himself to be hoisted up. “You are perfectly capable, and not at all terrible at doing laundry.” He jested, wrapping his arms around him.

“Why do I put up with you?” Harry smiled against Draco’s mouth.

“I’m devastatingly good looking.” He said seriously before kissing him.

Harry laughed and pulled him onto the bed.

“You can unpack your things tomorrow, rather.” Draco said, regaining the breath Harry had squashed out of him on impact. “It’s late and it would be much more fun to read through Gable and Herbert instead.” He looked pointedly at Harry, feeling his face flush with the expression he received in return.

Harry laughed again, supposedly at Draco’s telling complexion, as he reached over and heaved the heavy book onto the bed and waggled his eyebrows in mock flirtation. “Mm, yes, which chapter shall we read tonight, then?” He said, imitating Draco’s posh tones. Draco swatted him with a pillow and Harry’s low laugh filled him to the brim.

The tea tray lay long forgotten as Harry flipped through the pages of _The Adventures of Gable and Herbert_ and began reading aloud, doing the voices and all _._

 

__________

 

October 24, 2009

 

Draco sat at his little, dingy desk in a too big Weasley sweater with a giant _H_ embroidered on the front, knee-high green socks, and his underwear. He had no patients today, and Harry had gone off to a meeting, leaving Draco alone to ponder life and the two letters in front of him.

His flurry of post-its, evidence of his threadbare sanity, had long since been cleared away in the days after Harry’s arrival. His desk was ordered and clean now, neat post-its lining the wall in front of him. Scattered among his own affirmations were a few with untidy, familiar writing. _Just breathe_ was scribbled on a pink one. _Look how far you’ve come_ on another blue. On a ridiculously large yellow post-it read _I’m proud to know you._

Draco grinned and blushed every time he looked at them, an uncountable number of times since they had been placed on the wall two days previously. They had faced a new hurdle together. One that Draco had been dreading. One that he was convinced would have ended in a blowout fight.

When they had begun their foray into sex, the physical side of their relationship had carried on with growing momentum and, really, Draco was well pleased with how far he had come. How far they had come, together. He was consumed with this new desire for closeness, for release, for everything they could do together. They were always keen for one another, in the newness and excitement of it all.

But, after a particularly hard day at work, and a few off-handed comments he had overheard in Honeydukes when he took himself for chocolates, he was feeling unsettled in his own skin. He had gone home feeling hot and prickly all over. His mind hummed and his bones felt unstable.

Unnamed, but familiar emotions reared from the depths, threatening to overtake him. He wanted to be near Harry, to feel his solidity, but at the same time couldn’t stand the thought of being touched intimately. It was so very different to the feeling he had grown accustomed to, the desire to have Harry touch him. The openness he had come to love. Now was yet a new feeling. A new desire. For touch and comfort, but for it to go no further. He didn’t know how to articulate any of this.

When he came into the flat, arms laden with bags of sweets he had impulse purchased, Harry eyed him closely. He had just barely dropped the parcels in the kitchen before moving for Harry with ill-disguised desperation. Harry had wrapped his arms around Draco in practised movements and began kissing down his neck with that new single-minded purpose.

Draco melted into the initial embrace but froze moments later when Harry’s hands continued to wander. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he didn’t want to reject Harry. Wanted to be touched, but not like this.

“Harry…” His voice came out soft and hushed and Harry hadn’t picked up on the tone Draco was trying to impart. He continued moving down Draco’s body, kissing his now exposed shoulder, pressing against him with familiarity and open longing, hands demanding.

“Harry.” He said again, a little more urgently as the chorus of buzzing echoed in his mind. Harry’s hands finally stilled on Draco’s hips.

“What is it?” He asked, panting slightly, pulling back, his flush face looking concernedly at Draco. Draco, who couldn’t think, stared helplessly back at Harry, mouth moving soundlessly, unable to say what it was he wanted. Needed.

“What’s wrong?” He rested a hand on the side of Draco’s cheek.

“Is it…” He tried. The words just didn’t want to leave his throat, but he desperately needed them to. He could _not_ do this right now and Harry _needed_ to know.

His mind was fuzzy and sweat prickled across his skin. “Is it okay- if we- if we don’t?” The words were stilted and frightened sounding, and Harry sagged a little and backed further away.

Draco felt instantly bereft. He felt immeasurably confused by his own needs. He didn’t want Harry to leave and was afraid that if he rejected him, for the first time since they started having sex, that Harry would be upset with him, think less of him.

“Don’t what?” Harry asked, clarifying.

“I need- I can’t-” His words were doing that thing again, where they wouldn’t come out in any way that was helpful. He didn’t want to revert to snapping and storming off. It would have been easier. Would have certainly gotten his point across, but he didn’t want to push Harry away. The old Draco would have done that. This was a moment for growth.

“Just breathe.” Harry said, grabbing his hand and squeezing. Draco hadn’t realized that his breath had been coming in shallow, quick gasps. “We don’t have to do anything.”

It was Draco’s turn to sag. He took a deep breath and stared into Harry’s kind eyes, willing himself to be honest and clear with what he needed and wanted.

“I can’t do this right now. Is that okay?” He asked in a small voice.

“Of course it’s okay.” Harry said with a stern look. “I never want you to do something just because I want to.”

“It’s just-  I can’t- but-” He was really struggling to string words together. He needed to lay down. Needed Harry near him. Needed feather light touches on his arms. Needed his duvet.

“You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to. We can talk about it later.” He offered, gently, releasing Draco and taking a step back to give him space.

Draco took a deep breath. Relief flooding through him and he nodded. “Will you lay with me?” He asked meekly, avoiding Harry’s eyes now. He felt stupid and weak. Embarrassed all over again by his lack of desire.

“Of course.” The smile Harry gave him was radiant and understanding. It held no malice or bitterness. “Can I touch you?”

“Please. Just- just not that. Not right now.” He mumbled. He was relieved that Harry understood. Profoundly relieved. Not just that he didn’t want to have sex, but that sometimes when he was overwhelmed, words didn’t come easily. He was never impatient with Draco, never demanded more than he could offer in the moment. Just gentle questions and held spaces.

Harry led him over to the bed and enfolded him in a tight embrace under the heavy duvet. The compression felt like a relief to his nervous system. It felt safe and held. Harry’s fingers danced gently up and down Draco’s exposed arm as he drifted off, thinking again of how much he loved this man.

When he had awoken several hours later, dinner was made and there were several new additions to his post-it note collection.

He tore himself away from the memory of Harry’s gentleness and stared down at the letter from his mother, and another from Pansy. Neither of whom had he told about Harry. A fact that Draco was now deeply regretting.

_Darling Draco,_

_I hope you are well. I am writing to invite you to the Fawley family Sabbath Celebration on this coming Saturday. As you know, the invite list is incredibly coveted. But, Madam Fawley hand delivered our last minute invitation, you see. She may have heard through the grapevine that you were single. She’s quite fond of the idea of a Malfoy match for her grandson, you know. Our name may not be what it use to, but it is still sought after._

_It would be ever so favourable if you would consent to accompany me. I hear her grandson is quite fetching, and their family was far removed from the unpleasantness of the last few decades. It would be a beneficial match._

_Please consider, and owl back with your measurements for Twillfits._

_Love,_  
_Your mother_

Here was his mother again, trying her damndest to be supportive, but doing it in the strangest and most uncomfortable of ways. He couldn’t think of any amount of money or bribery that could convince him to attend a Sabbath celebration full of pureblood snobbery and elf-made wine.

The thought of being set up with another man was truly laughable when he sat perched, wearing Harry’s Weasley jumper, his flat was covered in things to remind him of Harry’s presence. He’d ought to tell his mother he was otherwise involved before she tried something like this again.

Next to that, lay another, hurriedly scribbled letter in familiar violet ink.

 

_Draco Lucius Dead Man Walking Malfoy,_

_You’re so lucky this isn’t the howler I planned on sending during business hours. SO LUCKY. I deserve an Order of Merlin, First Class, for this kind of restraint and maturity._

_I just heard from none other than Ginny Weasley that you are currently involved with a certain bespectacled SAVIOR OF THE WIZARDING WORLD. The utter BETRAYAL. You absolute berk! How have you kept that silent for so long?! A Gryffindor? Really? I owe Nott so much money._

_I need confirmation. I need details. I need wine. None of that herbal syrup of Longbottom’s. I need Goblin Gin. I’ll bring a crate. Remember when we use to break into your parent’s liquor cabinet? I would like to relive the memory, as older, wiser, more beautiful people with gossip worth telling._

_I’m coming to you this upcoming Friday. Prepare yourself._

_Love,  
_ _Pansy_

It seems hurricane Pansy would be landing in six days. Draco didn’t know what to do about that. It would be the first time they spent together since the trial. They had kept their promise of exchanging fairly regular owls. Pansy telling Draco about her marital troubles, about Blaise’s habit of working late and obsessing over his vineyard. Draco would tell her about work and pointedly avoided discussing his love life, despite her clear interest.  

The thought of sharing his secret and quiet relationship with Harry with the rest of the world was unnerving and exposing. The thought of telling Pansy that they would not be drinking in his home was an uncomfortable one. He’d better get it over with. Uncapping his favourite muggle pen, he wrote;

 

_Dear Pansy Bane of my Existence Parkinson-Zabini,_

_YOU are the lucky one to have not sent that howler, I would have skinned you alive and worn your flesh suit as a warning to others. I regret nothing, you trout. What do you mean you owe Nott money? There’s no way any of you foresaw this happening._

_Yes, I am with Harry. No, you may not have details. Yes, please come for dinner on Friday. No, we are not drinking, and I mean this in all seriousness. Neither Harry or I drink, and we would appreciate it if you didn’t bring alcohol into our home. Yes, we’re living together. No, I don’t want to talk about it. Yes, we both hate the flat, as I’m sure you will too._

_What I DO want to talk about is why you were cavorting with your own Gryffindor? Ginny Weasley? Really? Oh, Pansy, you treacherous snake, you. Tell me, is this visit to Hogsmeade really just to pry into my love life? What aren’t you telling me?_

_See you at 7 pm sharp._

_Love,  
_ _Draco_

 

He sealed the letter and pulled another sheet of parchment to write to his mother. This time dipping a quill in an ink pot.

 

_Dear Mother,_

_Thank you for the invite and consideration. It is appreciated. But, unfortunately, I have not been forthcoming with you as of late. It seems now would be an appropriate time to tell you that I am involved with someone. It is quite serious. My apologies to Madam Fawley and to her, I am sure, perfectly admirable grandson._

_To that effect, I am unable to make the Sabbath Celebration, too. I have plans already. You should go, though. Enjoy yourself. I will tell you more about my partner soon. Perhaps you can come to tea when we have time._

_Love,  
_ _Draco_

 

He whistled loudly and Little Dipper swooped in, as if waiting for the signal, from an outside tree nearby. He was electric with excitement for a delivery. It had been ages since he’d had a job.

“Come here you knob.” Draco chided affectionately as Little Dipper’s ear tufts wobbled dramatically. His little legs bouncing with uncontained joy. “Now, this one, this one here is for Pansy, remember where she is in France? Yes? Good.” He nodded as Little Dipper listened with serious concentration, holding his leg out with focused determination. “And, this one here, this one is for mother, at the manor. Drop mother’s off first.”

Little Dipper hooted in understanding as Draco took a moment to stroke the soft feathers of his head. “Go on, then, you little menace.” He encouraged fondly.

The owl pushed enthusiastically off the back of the office chair and soared out the open kitchen window.

 

___________

 

October 30, 2009

 

Luna’s home looked as welcoming and full of love as it ever did when he and Harry walked up the front steps to the large purple door, hand in hand. The garden was covered in the colourful leaves of autumn, jack-o-lanterns lining the stone walkway, a large wreath of dried sunflowers and blackthorn branches hung heavy on the door under the bare wisteria vine, its thick black trunk and sprawling branches laying heavy across the arbour overhead.

The door swung open on their approach, and a very pregnant Luna beamed her gentle smile at them. “Come in, come in.” She beckoned, hugging them both tightly.

“Hi Luna.” Harry said, clearly afraid of hugging her too hard, very aware of her enormous belly.

Luna was only nearing 36 weeks now but looked far further along carrying twins. She carried it well, in her serene way, draped in her usual layers of rainbow cloth and odd, jangling jewellery.

She led them to the kitchen, passed the living room that was once a meeting space, now decorated with all the trappings of an expectant family. A half-built crib in the corner, a plush family sofa crowded around a low coffee table before the fireplace, and stacks of folded cloth diapers on a changing station.

Draco stopped in the doorway to survey the newly acquired baby gear, as Luna waddled away down the passage to the kitchen. “Are you building that crib yourself, Greg?” He asked in a slightly teasing voice.

Greg grinned sheepishly, adjusting his tool belt. “Me and Weasley.”

“You and Weasley? Which Weasley?” Harry asked curiously.

“Ron.” Greg told them. “After we met at Grimmauld Place all those weeks ago, he wrote to me and asked if I needed any help getting ready. Did I ever.” He chuckled. “He’s been coming by pretty regularly with Rose. Helping us put things together, organize baby clothes. He’s really in his element with children. Didn’t realize there was so much to consider.”

Harry had an unusually soft expression on his face, hearing about his best mate get excited about baby things. “Ron’s a great dad.” He said softly. “You couldn’t ask for a better role model.”

They turned to follow Luna’s lead, and as soon as they entered the kitchen, Greg began fussing over the tea tray. “We won’t keep you long, I know you’re both busy,” she said from where she sat perched on a stool at the centre island. She smiled fondly as she watched Greg dance around the kitchen with far more determination than seemed necessary, “but, we had something we wanted to ask you both.”

“Oh?” Harry asked, also watching Greg scuttle about with a curious expression on his face.

She placed her hand softly on Greg’s shoulder to draw him back to the conversation and he nodded as he passed out cups of tea and set down a large plate of raspberry scones.

He sat down and smiled adoringly at Luna, taking her hand in his and giving it a quick kiss before focusing on his guests.

“We thought, since you both have been surrounded by so much death, and heaviness in your lives, and in your new roles as Death Herders, that experiencing some life would be good for you.” She smiled at them expectantly with her huge blue eyes, one hand resting softly on her belly.

“I don’t understand. Are you telling us we need to go on vacation or something?” Harry asked.

Greg laughed openly and looked between them. Draco had a shrewd suspicion he knew what was happening, but wanted clarification.

“Luna, are you asking us to come to your birth?” He felt a strong welling of affection and gratitude for his friends deep in his midsection. Harry, in turn, inhaled a bit of scone he had been taking a bite of.

“Yes, I am.” She smiled, her hands dancing soothingly across her huge belly, Harry coughing violently, face turning purple. “I think it would be good for both of you.”

Greg was nodding eagerly and looking between Harry and Draco for their reaction.

Harry, still coughing, stood and pounded a fist to his chest to dislodge the errant crumb that was attempting to kill him.

Draco looked with bewilderment between his two friends as he stood to slap Harry on the back. “You really want us there? Are you sure you want an audience?”

Harry turned panicked eyes at all of them, face red with the effort of clearing his throat, and tried to push out a few raspy words, “ _You want what now_?” the shrill disbelief forcing another round of hacking.

“No, I don’t want an audience.” She laughed softly, pointing her wand at Harry and casting a silent spell to clear his throat. “I’m not asking you to come into the room. Just to be here when it happens. Be the first to meet them.”

Harry’s cough finally subsided into guttural throat clearing and he sat back down with watery eyes. “You want _us_ to be _here_ when your _children are born_ ?” He asked, staring between them with confusion evident on his face. “Here as in, _here?_ In this _house?”_

Draco exchanged a knowing look with Luna and Greg. Greg answered, “Well, yeah, mate, having your children at home is pretty commonplace in pureblood families. All three of us were born at home.”

“Really?” Harry asked, voice thick with confusion and scepticism. “I didn’t think anyone did that anymore. Not with hospitals existing. Hermione gave birth at St. Mungo’s.”

Draco shrugged. “Personal preference, or medical necessity. It’s different for everyone. But, usually, given the choice, most purebloods would choose to give birth at home with their midwife.”

“Not a healer?” Harry asked, his eyes still wide.

“Well, no, healers heal things. Low-risk pregnancy isn’t something to be healed. They just happen. Midwives are experts in the low-risk range of normal.” Draco explained. He forgot how much information he took for granted about the magical world as a pureblood and a healer. “Honestly, you may have been born at home too. The Potters were a pureblood line. We could find out, in the birth records, if you wanted.” Draco offered kindly, knowing that this may be an information overload.

Harry was looking at him as if he were speaking mermish. “17 years I’ve been in the wizarding world, and I still feel like I have no idea what’s happening sometimes.”

“I think you’re missing the point here, Harry.” Draco said grinning apologetically, tilting his head back to Luna and Greg, who were watching with amused interest.

He turned his startled eyes back to Greg and Luna and mouthed soundlessly for a moment.

“It’s okay, Harry, I know it might feel overwhelming.” Her voice was low and kind and her eyes held nothing but fondness. “But, like I said, I’m not asking you to actually be in the room, just to be here, in the house. And, of course, you can say no. I wouldn’t hold it against you. I just think it would be good for you.”

“Good for me...” He echoed, looking a bit lost.

Draco smiled at Harry’s speechlessness. He reached out across the table to grab Luna’s hand. “Thank you. I would love to be here. I think it would be good.” Greg gave a watery smile, as if he was overcome by the short exchange, and patted Draco clumsily on the shoulder.

Harry cleared his throat, seeming to come back to himself and making a decision. “Yeah. Yes. Me too.” He got up and hugged Luna, more soundly this time, clearly less afraid of breaking her.

 

__________

 

Later that night, Draco was pacing anxiously, waiting for Pansy to arrive. He didn’t know why he thought this was a good idea. Pansy was a viper, and she and Harry would either get on too well, or not at all. He didn’t know which possibility he was more afraid of.

Harry watched him wordlessly with an amused smirk on his lips. After coming back from Luna’s that morning, Harry had spent a lot of time in silent contemplation, making far too many cups of tea. But, as the afternoon wore on, he seemed to have settled back into himself. Now, he was back to his easy manner, while Draco seemed to slip deeper and deeper into his own anxiety.

“Draco, anyone would think you weren’t looking forward to seeing Pansy with how frantic you look right now.” He walked over to him and placed a gentle hand on Draco’s shoulder, stopping the momentum of his movements. He instantly felt himself calm slightly at the touch. “Your dinner looks beautiful and I promise I will be well behaved.”

“It’s not your behaviour I’m worried about.” Draco mumbled, his feelings of apprehension mounting. “She tried to sell you off to Voldemort, Harry, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to be here, or if you wanted me to cancel dinner.” He almost hoped that Harry would ask him to cancel dinner, just so he didn’t have to go through with it. He could spend the evening wrapped in his duvet with Harry pressed against his side.

“Oh, no.” Harry laughed. “You’re not getting me to ruin your dinner plans for you.” He made a show of straightening Draco’s collar and smoothing the front of his shirt. “You haven’t spent time with Pansy in ages, and you told me, not two days ago, that you wanted her and I to get to know one another, so, this is happening.” He said sternly, with a sly grin.

Draco narrowed his eyes at Harry. Equal parts annoyed and endeared that Harry was trying to order him about. He mumbled bitterly under his breath about bossy Gryffindors as he turned away from Harry’s grinning face to double check the stasis charm on their dinner.

“What was that?” Harry teased.

Draco tried to shoot him a look of deepest loathing, which he wasn’t sure he managed to pull off. Judging by the fact that Harry’s response was to laugh loudly and shake his head before walking towards the couch, he figured it may have been a failed attempt.

“Come help me with this, your highness.” Harry called, gesturing at the coffee table and couch.

Still grumbling, Draco stomped over to where Harry stood, causing the windows to rattle violently in the kitchen. Together they stood, and sent their weaving magic out to transfigure the stiff little couch and low table into a cosy dining space with three chairs. It was the perfect combination of their magic. The table was rounded and tall with sturdy, carved legs. The chairs were elegant with wide backs and rungs on the bottom, the perfect height to place one’s foot.

Harry reached over and pulled Draco into his arms, kissing his cheek chastely. The feel of Harry’s magic around him was something that never ceased to calm and elate him. It was _alive_ , and so very Harry. The great torrential capacity within him simmered gently in the air and Draco momentarily forgot his anxiety. Forgot the outside world.

That is, until the telltale swoosh of the floo roaring to life in the grate downstairs. Harry released Draco and gave him a reassuring smile. “Go on, then.” He encouraged, smiling at Draco’s wide eyed nervous expression.

“Goodness me, haven’t you any lights in this house?!” Pansy’s voice echoed up from downstairs. “Is this how you greet your guests?”

Harry snorted and Draco rolled his eyes, his tension breaking. Turning to the open door he drawled “I’m coming now” before descending the steps into the dark and empty waiting room below.

Pansy’s heels clicked on the floor as she followed the sound of his feet on the stairs. She stepped into the light cast from the flat above as Draco cleared the last step. She was dressed impeccably, as she often was.

Her eyebrows were plucked and pencilled to perfection, and the edge of her short bob seemed to have been cut with razor precision. Her heels were dangerously tall, and her black dress far too short for the season. Her green fur travelling cloak draped across her shoulders and black felted cloche sat neatly on her head. Her burgundy lipstick and winged eyeliner put her in mind of someone going out on the town or a hot date, not to a friend’s dingy flat in Hogsmeade.

Unwelcome to Draco’s eyes, however, were two bottles of what appeared to be champagne from the Zabini cellars in her right hand.

“Oh, darling!” She cried, a smile splitting her face. She threw an arm around Draco’s neck and kissed his cheek. She smelled like lilacs and cigar smoke. The lining of her coat tickled Draco’s nose as he breathed in the familiarity of her. It had been so long since they’d been close like this, and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed her in his life.

“Hey, Pans.” He said softly into her hair, hugging her tightly. “Thanks for coming. Sorry about the dark room.”

“Oh, not to worry.” She seemed a little taken aback by the warmness of his welcome. They had never been too affectionate towards one another in school, but Draco thought that maybe it was time he started showing his friends how much they meant to him.

He led her upstairs by the hand, fearful she might fall in those ridiculous heels and break her neck on his watch.

“I thought I told you no booze.” He chastised as she clipped up the steps with far more ease than seemed possible.

Pansy sighed dramatically. “If you must know, one of these is sparkling grape juice.” She said with a lamenting edge. She paused for a moment, considering, before continuing quickly. “And, the champagne I didn’t bring for you. I have another stop after this.” She sounded slightly embarrassed.

“Oh, so you _didn’t_ come all this way just to harass me and my quiet life. Why, Pansy, here I thought you missed me and wanted to pry.” Draco teased as he placed her bottles on the counter and helped her take her ridiculously large and luxuriant cloak off.

Seeing what was underneath it he chuckled and said, “But, I can see now that you’re not dressed for dinner with a boring gay couple. No, you’re dressed for something far more exciting than that.”

Pansy’s too short dress was completely open at the back. It laid delicately along the severe planes of her narrow frame in the most revealing way. She looked like sex on legs. Even Draco could appreciate how stunning she looked. “Oh, Draco, I am indeed here to pry. But, I so seldom come to this side of the world, I thought I should make the rounds.” She said, waving her hand flippantly.

“Who in the world are you going to see looking like this, and how did you manage to get Blaise to let you leave the house?”

Pansy just barely managed not to blush as she smiled wolfishly. “As if Blaise had any input on my wardrobe and social life.” She laughed.

Harry cleared his throat from the other side of the room and Pansy spun gracefully on her heels to face him. “Why, hello Potter.” She said sweetly, if not a little stilted, surveying him closely. Harry himself was wearing his favourite worn jeans, a Weasley jumper and a pair of socks that Draco had knitted. His hair was a rat’s nest as usual and he stood with his arms folded.

“Parkinson.” He said with a smile, nodding his head curtly.

Draco was full of apprehension. He realized in that moment how much it meant to him that they be civil to one another.

“I hope you’re hungry, I made paella for dinner.” Draco interrupted, trying not to let them lull into any awkward silences where they could dredge up old memories and reasons to hate one another.

“Oh, excellent! Is it your mother’s recipe? It used to be my favourite thing she made.” She exclaimed excitedly. “Can I help with anything?” She walked towards the small kitchen, clearly intent on being useful.

“Similar to mother’s, yes, but you know she never made it herself, Pans, the house elves made it.” Draco said, smiling, remembering the amount of time they spent together in their youth. “Could you grab the sparkling? We can go sit.”

Pansy obliged and Harry moved forward to help Draco carry the food to the newly transfigured dining room table. “ Of course I know the house elves made it.” Pansy snorted. “Neither of our parents would recognize a frying pan if it hit them in the face.”

Draco was feeling jittery and nervous and he allowed a sympathetic Harry to take the heavy paella pan from his sweaty hands and place it gently at the centre of the table.

Harry scooted his chair closer to Draco’s and rested a soothing hand on his knee as Pansy nattered endlessly about the weather, pouring three champagne flutes of sparkling grape juice.

“So,” she said, finally changing the subject away from Scotland's apparently subpar seasons, and handing them each a glass “I’ll have you know, Blaise bottled this special for us tonight.” She beamed, and Draco rose an eyebrow in question as he held the suspicious, bubbling beverage. “It’s non-alcoholic, as requested, but it _is_ made from our late harvest riesling grapes.” She said with a satisfied grin, clearly very pleased with herself.

Draco felt that warm fuzzy feeling in his midsection increase at the notion that Pansy had been so thoughtful.

“Pansy…” Draco said, the fondness in his voice evident.

“To friendship.” She stated, imperiously, raising her flute.

He had Harry both inclined their heads with a smile and clinked glasses with Pansy and took a sip. The mild sweetness and tart acidity was pleasant in his mouth and he knew instantly it would be delicious with their seafood feast.

“Okay,” Pansy said, sounding businesslike, putting down her glass, “I need to know, how in Circe’s sagging tits, did this happen?” She gestured flippantly at the two of them sitting so close.

Harry grinned, shooting Draco a sideways glance, and he felt himself blush.

“Because, from what I remember,” she continued, addressing Harry, “you two never could pass up an opportunity to sling insults or jynxes, or even the occasional punch in the face.”

“Believe me,” Harry said with a chuckle, pushing his hand uselessly through his hair, “I think we were just as shocked to see how well we got along when we weren’t fighting.” He looked at Draco and grinned softly when their eyes met. Draco felt his face grow warm again and he felt sweaty thinking that Pansy was seeing them like this. That Harry’s soft eyes and gentle smile weren’t just for behind closed doors and in the dark of night, but that he could look at Draco like that in front of others.

Draco looked back at Pansy and he could see her calculating eyes watching them closely. “Where? When? How?” She asked, brandishing a fork at them. “Details, people.”

“Uhhhh…” Draco intoned, turning a confused gaze on Harry, who looked equally as perplexed and slightly embarrassed. They hadn’t really talked about what they would say to people outside the inner circle. All of Harry’s closest friends knew, so they had never had to discuss it, but how did you explain the whole wild and deeply private story to someone new? Did anyone need to know?

“Well.” He started, awkwardly. “We met again through... work.” He said vaguely, looking to Harry for confirmation, who just shrugged apologetically. “And, then he came with me to my research post in the forest, as a… friend. We weren’t together yet, then. We only started dating afterwards. Around my birthday.” He finished evasively. Harry nodding along.

“He helped me out with some personal stuff. And, we became really close. The rest is history.” Harry shrugged. He reached out and began to ladle heaping piles of paella onto his plate, seemingly as a distraction.

“History, indeed.” Pansy said, taking the serving spoon from Harry and serving herself a small, neat pile of paella with a scallop and two clams delicately placed on top. She sipped her sparkling grape juice pensively. “How did you get over your shared history?” She asked carefully, real curiosity in her voice.

“We didn’t get over it.” Harry said flatly. “We bonded over it. We both had a fucked up time of it in school, and after. Draco just understood what it was like.”

Draco felt his heart swelling. To hear Harry explain and defend their growth together to someone. It was validating and heartening.

“You know, it does kind of make sense, in a way.” She said, smirking at Draco. “Draco here couldn’t go more than six hours without talking about you in school. Potter _this_ , Potter _that_ , Potter’s _broomstick_ , Potter’s _hair,_ Potter’s _eyes_. It was exhausting.”

“Pansy!” Draco yelled, feeling immensely embarrassed by the base betrayal. “Silence!”

Harry was cackling gleefully, looking like Christmas had come early. “Thinking about my broomstick a lot in school, were you?”

“Honestly!” He moaned and Harry continued to laugh openly. “What did I do to deserve this?” He asked his plate of food. It had no answers for him.

“Oh, come now, Harry,” Pansy teased, her smile widening, “I hear you weren’t much better. Maybe even worse. At least Draco didn’t follow you all around the school at all hours. Well, sometimes he did-”

“That is enough!” Draco threw a sauteed mushroom at her.

She squawked indignantly and Harry asked with a curious smile, “And, where exactly are you getting this information from?”

“Oh, you know, around.” She said with a prevaricate air, still smirking.

They passed the rest of dinner enjoyably enough. He was proud of both of them. Harry and Pansy were trying to be friendly, to chat amicably, ask one another engaging questions. He knew Harry didn’t care for Pansy’s desire to gossip about old school mates, and he knew that Pansy couldn’t give a rat’s fart about Harry’s wood carvings, but they were trying to find common ground for Draco’s sake. It made him feel loved.

At 9:30 she announced, “Alright, you old ladies, I best be off now. I have places to be” as she donned her fluffy cloak and swiped the unopened bottle of champagne off the counter.

She hugged Draco tightly and kissed him on the cheek, smudging a bit of her dark lipstick. “Owl me.” She said softly before squeezing his hand.

“You better believe I will. I want to know what in Merlin’s name you’re up to.” He goaded with a raised eyebrow.

She gave him a wicked grin before moving to stand in front of Harry. “Potter.” She said, with all the authority she could muster at speaking to the man who killed Voldemort.

“Parkinson.” He returned, in a similar tone and they stared at one another for a moment, as if sizing each other up.

Her face broke into a reluctant smile, and she moved to hug him. Draco watched his oldest friend and his partner share a quick embrace. Pansy said something in a low voice in Potter’s ear, that made him grin and nod his head, something that Draco didn’t catch before she withdrew and swiftly walked to the door.

“Can I walk you out?” Draco asked, watching her teeter on the top step.

“Oh, no, dear, I’ll be fine. Thanks for dinner, love.” She winked at him, and began walking down the stairs.

“Don’t break your neck in those heels!” He shouted after her.

“Fuck off!” She yelled back, reaching the bottom of the steps and striding out of sight.

Draco snorted and shut the door as the floo roared to life and Pansy disappeared.

 

________

 

Nov 1, 2009

 

It was late. The sun had long since vanished from the sky and the hoots of owls were all that could be heard in the cold fall air outside the small window of Draco’s office. He was hunched over a scattering of parchments laid out across his large walnut desk, ticking off ingredients on a list for a potion concept that was evading him. Something that could be instrumental in his Haem work if he could just piece it together.

The cauldrons behind him hissed and bubbled gently in the dim candlelight, and Voileami kept regularly popping her head in the door as if to inquire what Draco was doing down here so late

Harry had gotten an owl from Hestia sometime after dinner, and he left quickly without much of an explanation. “I have to run to Grimmauld Place. Hestia needs me.” He had said before throwing his boots and jacket on, and kissing Draco. He apparated away before Draco could respond, and he found himself idly wandering downstairs soon after his departure, his mind full of a web of concepts that needed to be laid out.

That had been hours ago, and Draco hadn’t realized how late it had become, alight with intensity about his ideas as he was. Engrossed in the thick cream parchment, covered in bullet pointed lists and margins filled with cramped, half formed thoughts.

He relished these quiet hours alone. The peace and carefully built stability of his relationship with Harry had gifted him a new freedom in his solitude. His time alone was no longer fraught with worries and concerns over Harry, but rather a time when he could truly begin to feel comfortable with himself. As someone who had spent so much of their life in isolation, this new sensation and joy in solitude was a very different experience. His mind was more clear, his thoughts less disjointed than usual.

  * _Leonurus Cardiaca  x thestral umbilical cord_


  * _Angelica Sinensis x thestral caul_


  * _Rubues Idaeus x thestral placenta_



He was hashing out a new idea about the thestral's capacity for helping the cultivation of new life. Inspired as he was by Luna’s gift to him and Harry. He was thinking about the thestral cave. About their nests and the luminescent algae, soft and ethereal. He was wondering about their birthing rituals, their mating habits. There was so much he didn’t yet know. So much to learn about these beautiful creatures.

Voileami had idled into the room again, resting her oblong head against Draco’s arm as he wrote, as if he were the reason she wasn’t asleep yet. He stilled his pen from flying across the page to gently stroke her velvety, boney face. “Odd creature, why are you still here, you know you can go to sleep. You needn’t wait for me.” He teased, feeling fond that she was still here this late.

She huffed in a reprimand as if the idea of leaving him alone downstairs was preposterous. “I wonder, should we go revisit your cave one of these days?” He asked rhetorically. It was something he had been thinking about a lot recently. He missed the forest. Missed the quiet contemplation.

Another idea caught his attention, and he hastened to mark it down lest it evaporate from his thoughts before he could grasp it. He was so lost in the rhythmic movement of his own hand and the words flying out onto the page, that he didn’t immediately notice Voileami’s sudden departure.

There had been no shuffling or clomping hooves, no swish of her tail, no reproachful snort. She was simply gone from the room. The absence of her warmth from his side left a trail of goosebumps along his arm and the hairs on the back of his neck rose uncomfortably.

He was suddenly very aware of the unnatural stillness in the house. Something felt off. Something was wrong.

The wards around him wobbled slightly. They hadn’t swayed in their usual way to indicate someone’s presence in his home, but his finely attuned senses towards magic alerted him that they didn’t feel normal. They felt stilted, uncomfortable, as if they had been momentarily _confunded_.

He stifled an urge to call out for Harry, to see if he was home, to reassure himself that nothing was wrong, but he couldn’t feel the safe and grounding swirl of magic that soothed him and told him he was safe. No. He felt… something unknown. He felt a prickle of unfamiliar magic in the air as he heard a muffled footstep in the front room.

Draco wasn’t alone.

All of the lights in the house were out save for the dim glow of a few candles in his office. He thought that whoever was here must presume Draco to be asleep upstairs or out of the house. Perhaps he was being burgled. Teenagers come to steal potions or cash. Or, perhaps it was someone who didn’t appreciate a Death Eater opening up shop in a quiet town full of innocent people. He ran through a mental list of people that would want to snoop around his practice in the dead of night, as he heard more distinct shuffling of feet.

Draco sat perfectly still, his heart hammering in his chest, sweat beading under his shirt. He realized that once whoever was here came down the hall they would see the soft glow of light coming from his office and he would be found.

His mind raced, unsure of what to do. Apparate? Face the intruder? Perhaps it was just Luna being weird and wandering around in the dark? Perhaps Draco was just hearing things and being profoundly paranoid. It certainly wouldn’t be out of character for either of those scenarios to be true.

There was a creak of a floor board and a low whisper was answered by a rumbling mutter. There were two people. Two unknown people. Wandering around Draco’s practice at near one in the morning. The only people who could get in without the wards sounding were Harry and Luna, but, neither of them would creep around that quietly.

The only other kind of people who could get through his wards without detection knew dark magic. Ex Death Eaters, or dark wizard catchers. His downstairs didn’t hold the same web of neurotically protective magic as did his flat upstairs and he cursed the oversight. How could they have been that stupid?

Another footstep, closer this time. They were coming down the hall. He was just deciding to apparate away when a voice broke the tense silence of the house and he nearly jumped out of his skin. “Healer Malfoy, we know you’re here.” Said a familiar voice that sent a thrill of panic down his spine. It was the stone-faced ministry worker with aviators. The footsteps were coming still closer and Draco felt paralyzed in place. Torn between protecting himself and protecting his work.

He took a fortifying breath and shook the stiff numbness from his limbs, vanishing the parchment to his desk upstairs and placing stasis and protection charms on his potions. He couldn’t let them damage his work. Couldn’t let them see his research.  The two familiar and unwelcome faces came into doorway, lit by the soft glow of candles, their eyes triumphant and eerie in the dim lighting.

“Ah, here you are.” The short one said, smiling. “Was hoping you could answer a few questions for us.” He said smoothly. They stepped into the room and assumed a wide threatening stance, blocking the doorway. Their wands out and at the ready.

“Gentlemen.” He greeted in drawling, dignified tones as if they had had a standing appointment. As if Draco was expecting them. His voice was carefully controlled and didn’t reflect the utter terror he felt at being cornered in his own home by intruders. He spoke and sat in his desk chair like the healer he was. He wouldn’t let them see his fear. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” He asked with a sharp voice.

“Oh, now it’s a pleasure, is it?” The taller one chuckled cruelly. “I knew you’d be more amenable to discussions when there wasn’t a door to slam in our face.”

“Or a famous boyfriend to rescue you.” The shorter one said, with a bite of anger, his lip curling.

Draco didn’t know why the reference to Harry frightened him so much, but he felt his heart stutter at the implication.

“We’ve been trying to get to you for weeks to have a little chat about your work with thestrals, but you seem to have some good friends to help you out with that ward magic upstairs.” The tall one sounded irritated and impressed in equal measure.

“It helps to have friends in high places.” Draco said flippantly. He slipped into the petulant brat attitude with shocking ease. “Generally helps keep the miscreants away.” He said pointedly, looking them up and down with obvious distaste.

“The ministry wants to know what you’re planning with Harry Potter and the thestrals.” The short one spat, clearly unable to restrain himself from meeting Draco’s challenging tone. He knew he shouldn’t needle them. Knew he should tell them whatever they wanted to know to avoid getting arresting and sent to Azkaban, but his righteous indignation at the situation combined with his rising adrenaline and rage propelled him to act like the self-assured prick he once was.

“What Harry and I get up to is none of your concern. You can get your gossip from the _Prophet_ like everyone else.” He snapped angrily. “As for the thestrals, I’ve told you repeatedly that I quit my research to focus on _real science_. Hence, the room you’re currently standing in.” He gestured around, indicating his cauldrons and stacks of magical medical textbooks lining the walls. “The DoM has all my research. If you have questions, you can ask them.” He resisted all of his instincts to cross his arms defensively like an angry teenager being grilled by their parents.

They stood and stared at him for a long moment as if considering what to do next. Draco silently and desperately wondered where the fuck Harry was.

“I think, Healer Malfoy, it’s time for you to come in for some questioning.” Said the taller one, eyeing Draco with amusement. Draco felt the low thrum of dread he’d been experiencing, mount to a crescendo.

“On what grounds?” Draco growled, getting to his feet. He did not have his wand in his hand, but felt his magic pool around him defensively, ready for the fight.

“On the grounds that we don’t believe a single fucking word out of your Death Eater mouth.” The short one said, his ire getting the better of him. He moved forward to seize Draco and the moment his hand made contact with his elbow, the current of powerful magic, that was Harry’s through and through, shot out at him. Making him leap back in shock with a howl of rage. His talisman had kept him safe.

In the split second before they realized what had happened, Draco took advantage of their distraction and moved with the speed of lightning. The crack of apparition was loud in his ears as his magic pulled him away from the stunning curses that came flying towards him, only one destination in mind.

_Harry._

 


	20. The Forest, Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Minor Character Death

## The Forest, Again

November 01, 2009

The dust that had once covered the entirety of Grimmauld Place was no more, and Harry felt nothing between his hands and the ancient magic of the wizarding home, a slow and gentle thrum, centuries of spells, decadently laid across floorboards and ornate paneling, along the moulding and every brick of the hearth. He let his fingers slide along the bannister wood, dark with the oils of many transient touches. He could hear Hestia’s voice from the meeting room, and he climbed the rest of the stairs, a newly steeped mug of tea steaming in his right hand, his left drifting across the dark, polished lines of oak. It warmed almost imperceptibly beneath his touch, gentle and reassuring. Grateful and at peace. 

Harry had joined Hestia, Dennis, Luna and Greg to discuss the recent spate of lurkers in the square outside, trench coats long and brims of their hats wide, pulled low over stoic, unremarkable faces. Lurkers who had gone so far as to question Joaquin and Alethea about the house one blustery afternoon, crisp dried leaves and detritus swirling about their feet. They had been all smiles, feigned curiosity thinly veiled over deeply malicious intensity. It was as if the ghosts of the Death Eaters Harry had once spied from the same cobwebbed windows had returned to haunt the square, these new spectres of malcontent also sanctioned and sent by the Ministry of Magic. 

“Unspeakables.” Hestia had said, a dark look settling across her regal features, a ring of holly, complete with tiny red berries, encircling her. She had pushed her long braids over her shoulder, crossed her arms and glared, her magic rumbling its discontent. Its anger. 

“Not unspeakables, unknowables.” Replied Luna’s soft voice, tired and waning as she spoke, a yawn had stretched the corners of her mouth as she lay back against Greg’s shoulder, his arm snug around her. She was dressed in flowing robes of periwinkle blue, soft and delicate and edged in silver embroidery. She looked as though she was made of nothing but the moonlight itself, long pale hair in a thick braid, her hands crescent around her belly, round as the waxing moon.  

Luna, in her way, though much subdued and even slower than normal, had explained that the Department of Mysteries swallowed up those who dug deeply into the esoteric and mystical world of magic, who were effectively erased from their lives - nameless wizards and witches, unknown to any, no histories and no names. Seekers of power, drawn to it, inexorably. It was the unknowables who had collected the artefacts that peppered the rooms behind the doors. The unknowables who had taken the veil, had lifted it onto the plinth, sealed away from the earth where it had first been formed, tattered cloth once free to blow in the gentle winds of the waking world, on sacred ground where knowledge seeped between the two worlds. 

It was the unknowables who had harvested the brains. Had first unlocked time. The unknowables who had captured space and who had hunted love, pure and effortlessly true, the most powerful trophy of them all. 

Power, in all of its forms, they craved it. They traded their lives, their identities, their histories, and they circled around their treasures like fervid, starving magpies, forever hungry for more. Forever hunting. Collecting. 

In the days before, Harry would have smiled and taken Luna’s words with hefty grains of salt, laughing away the Rotfang conspiracy with the nargles and other such hiccoughing stories of magical oddity and infamy, impossible and incomprehensible all at once. Stories that would have delighted a child, yet left all of the adults bored and irritable, as if Luna’s world of possibility was a burden, not a gift. A distraction, not an insight. 

But, that was the days before. A land where hallows were children’s stories, and life was simple and the ministry was just a cumbersome bureaucracy, like any other. Before magic had curled around life and death, around love and sacrifice. Before Grims and Death Herders, and thestrals with their milky, glassy eyes and knowing stares. Before ghosts parted the veil to whisper through dreams. Before magic he had never known had poured out of Harry, had threaded its way through his skin and bones, had anointed him, reclaimed him. Made a home in him. 

“At first,” Luna continued, her hands slowly and rhythmically tracing paths along the swell of her stomach, “the unspeakables were interested in Draco’s research, because of it’s great application in the wizarding world, because it could explain some of the more mysterious aspects of magic and medicine alike. Because it was new and exciting. Previously unattained.” 

The room had gone quiet, everyone listening, Dennis in his leather chair by the fire, legs crossed and chin resting on his palm, fingers tapping absently on one softly stubbled cheek. Hestia’s hands were clasped in her lap, her long black nails tight against her sable skin. 

“It seems, however, that the two of you together have aroused the interest of the unknowables. Now, they are interested not in what you can do, but you yourself. Your flesh. Your power. From here, they will likely hunt you. Trap you. I fear this is what Hermione was alluding to all those weeks ago when she mentioned the risk of disappearing. They will try to collect you, and all of the power that you both hold.” 

It was then that Harry had stood, her words still settling in the air of their meeting room, finding space amongst all the other secrets and fears of other stories shared before. He had taken the opportunity to head to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Mint. With honey. The tiny silver spoon clinked against the ceramic, so loud in the quiet of the empty kitchen, only populated by himself and his thoughts. 

As he climbed the stairs back to the room, he could hear their whispered voices, shuffled conversation and another of Luna’s yawns. Hestia was standing in the hall, watching out the window over the square outside, scowling, hand resting on her hip, her eyes pointedly narrowed, the holly leaves shining in the flickering light of the old oil lamps. Her mouth was just open, as if about to fog the chilled pane with murmured words. 

It was in that muffled quiet that a shrill and violent scream rent the air, quick and sharp and harrowing, punctuated with the sharp rise and fall of wings. Large, leathery, batlike wings and thudding hooves, and Flea was disappearing around one of the many dark hallways of Grimmauld Place, his long tail snaking around the corner into the realm of inky darkness beyond. 

Harry froze, letting an icy wave of dread ripple around him, rolling across his skin, his mug falling from his hand and the boiling tea spilling out across the stairs. Harry looked up to catch Hestia as she turned to look at him, marking the end of her watchful vigil at the window, her amber eyes bright and fierce in the flickering light. She shone with a resilient, unfettered determination. 

“They’re coming, Harry.” 

A pop sounded behind Harry in the foyer just before the ancient door, keeper and guard of the House of Black, followed by a stuttered, forceful inhale, and Harry felt his magic fret and keen with fear, felt his heart beat an unsteady rhythm in his chest. He turned, adrenalin running rivulets down his limbs, across his chest. His thoughts faded. Faded into nothing. Into frozen, empty nothingness. 

 _Draco_. 

He turned, as if in molasses. As if the world had been plunged into deep, icy water and everything made still with the cold and the dread and the weight of the depths on all sides. 

Before him, Draco stood, one hand stretched out as if to catch himself, to touch the wall and regain his footing, as he was standing with feet at odd angles, inappropriately wide. His other hand was at his neck, pulling at the collar of his robes, holding them away from his throat. His throat. It was pulling in air. Harry could see his adam’s apple drawing down with each forceful, ragged breath. He could see Draco’s shoulders hunching up, working to move air in. Everything in slow motion. Silent. As if the two of them. The two of them were drowning. 

“Harry, go!”

In a rush, sound came back to Harry’s world, Hestia’s voice cracking the stillness. The silence. Sound and time fell back together and Draco was coughing and spluttering and clawing at his neck, and Harry was flying down the stairs. Running to him. Arms outstretched, a fire kindling in him. Burning and roaring and his magic surging out of him, desperate and enraged, spiralling. 

And Harry caught Draco as the other man fell, the two of them spinning out of existence and away. Away to where it’s safe. Away home.  
  
_____________

 

Snow was falling softly in the clearing. The sky was dark and muted with clouds, the stars and moon hidden from view. Panting breaths released clouds of steam into the otherwise silent forest, muffled and dampened with layers of snow. 

The two men were both kneeling, the snow moulding to their collapsed forms. Harry still had his arms outstretched, one firmly fastened around the forearm of Draco, the other lifted gingerly into the openness of the night sky, a point of focus, a calling forward of magic, of charms of spellwork, tried and true. His eyes were closed, and he held himself still with fragile focus. 

He was chanting. Words soft and disheveled at first, the magic flighty and fickle.  

_Salvio hexia. Cave inimicum. Protego totalum._

As he spoke, the familiarity of the chant took hold, deep within his heaving chest. It poured from him, like muscle memory. This is how you protect the ones you love. 

_Salvio hexia. Cave inimicum. Protego totalum._

This is how you keep them safe. How you layer them in your love, in your courage, in your sacrifice. This is how you protect the ones you love. 

_Salvio hexia. Cave inimicum. Protego totalum._

And Harry’s voice grew with each repetition until it rang out into the once silent field, no longer soft and muted but the sound of his chanting carrying cold and clear into the night. It was weaving deep into the valleys of the South and around the slopes of mountains that rose into the Northern sky.  From the caverns and caves of the East to the peaks and rugged outcroppings that lay beyond the Rowan grove to the West. He chanted and his magic threaded deep into the earth, wound around the roots of ancient trees, soaked into the fissures in the granite, found a home in the polished stones of the riverbeds and the very soil beneath them. And it all entwined with his magic, bright and golden and true. 

It was only after he had ensured the safety of their hollow. Their forest home. That he opened his eyes. He lips still moved, the spells still flowing from him, but his voice was soft now, soft and gentle. Gentle and safe. 

Draco knelt before him, his breaths still coming in big heaving gasps. His eyes were wide, his hands shaking. Fear had consumed him, ravaged him. And Harry, who had been so focused on his own magic, sending it out across the stretches of wilderness around them, hectares of unkempt bramble and twisted, gnarled trees. Now, he found himself making his world small. Small enough to consist of just himself and Draco, kneeling together. Breathing out into the frigid air. Their bodies haphazardly thrown together. Together, in the snow. 

He brought his arm down to catch Draco’s hand, still pulling at the collar by his throat, and lessened his powerful grip on Draco’s other arm, settling both of his hands in a gentle hold across the insides of his forearms. His lips never stopped forming the words of his charms, but now he let the warmth radiating from his hands coast along Draco’s skin. He let his hands, his rugged and worn palms, rest flat against the pale and delicate stretches of Draco’s limbs, tremulous with fear and fatigue. As if a reflex, Draco wrapped his trembling fingers around Harry’s forearms in return. 

_Salvio hexia. Cave inimicum. Protego totalum._

Harry spoke each spell softly and carefully, and eventually Draco lifted his gaze to Harry’s, panicked breaths still full of fitful, quivering vibrato. His lips looked cracked with all of the rushing air, shallow and insufficient, ghostly and threadbare. His eyes were glassy, and struggled to focus, flitting back and forth from Harry’s face and the hands that lay so firmly and lovingly across his skin. 

_Salvio hexia. Cave inimicum. Protego totalum._

Harry was taking deep, slow breaths. He was focusing on radiating warmth and calm. On the repetition of these words. On the feeling of safety as much as the spellwork. On letting the stillness of the hollow wash back over them. Still, and dark and safe. 

“I’m okay.” It was Draco who finally spoke into the space between them, their arms still linked, a reflected pose, each of them the strength of the other. 

“You’re okay.” Harry responded, and his magic found Draco’s, like the battered coast after a storm sent wave after wave from the great, empty sea. 

Harry stood, lifting Draco to his feet with him, guiding him softly through the light powdery snow. Their footprints tracing a long remembered path to the little stone cabin nestled against the hillside, Draco leaning on Harry as they went. 

The old wooden door opened easily at Harry’s touch, as if they had only just left that morning. The living roof, now covered in snow, was still sloped above the entrance, downy feathers poking out between errant sticks in the eaves, as if the nest of all their avian neighbours hadn’t been empty in the preceding months. As empty as the cabin. As untended as the garden beds, weeds thick and unruly beneath the growing winter. 

Harry conjured a fire in the hearth, and it roared to life, an instant balm to the cold and empty feel of a stone house, abandoned at the close of last year’s snows. The light from the flames flickered around the walls, filling the cabin with a subdued glow, warm and homey. A golden heat. 

He slipped off his shoes and padded across the bear rug they had once laid out in the field under the stars, finding constellations in the dark. Finding themselves. The memory seemed to scatter itself in the air like dust particles, newly disturbed, as Harry approached the bed. He let it wash over him, and he let it warm him as much as the fire. 

He stared down at the bed. The only unfamiliar thing. No longer a bunk bed, a transfiguration Draco had relied upon in those early days. When Harry was the one trembling, wracked with withdrawals. When they had fought and bickered and sniped and eventually had reached a tenuous truce. When they’d found common ground. 

A bunk that had allowed them to get close. Closer. Had allowed Harry to peer over the side and rescue Draco from a nightmare. The first of many. A nightmare that had opened the pages of Draco’s history. An invitation to share in the horrors. In the fear. And the pain of the past. A bunk that had led to many more invitations. Many more shared moments in the dark. A bunk that had given space for something beautiful and delicate to grow between them. Something neither of them had trusted to be real, so accustomed were they to the cruelty of love. Of vulnerability. Oh, how it had scarred them both. And so, they had run. 

Harry let the memories swallow him up for a moment, before reaching down and tracing his hand over the old and patchy quilt on the mattress of hay. A relic from the days when Quintessence had first been published and potions gurgled in cauldrons en plein air amongst the beds in the garden, he imagined. As he finished the sweeping gesture, the bed transformed into the same mountain of pillows, softest satin sheets and thick featherdown duvet that simply sang of Draco. Of the nest he built himself. Of comfort, thick and plush and decadent. 

A groan from behind him, and Harry felt a smile flit across his face for the first time that evening. Draco was pulling off his shoes and socks and robes and shirt and trousers, soaked at the knees from the snow, as he crossed the tiny room, throwing himself at the bed. He just barely managed to pull the thick layer of blanket back as he plunged into the veritable eyrie. Another muffled groan escaped him, and Harry sighed out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. They were okay. They were going to be okay. 

Pulling his shirt over his head, and slipping his own trousers down over his still knobby knees, Harry slipped into bed beside Draco, the fire crackling and popping as he slid his arms around him, his hands covetous as his own fear finally caught up to him. Draco had only just escaped. Only just. 

Harry pulled Draco closer, folding himself around the other man, acres of their skin pressed together, his nose buried in the tousled gold of his hair. He smelled of black pepper and queen anne’s lace, and all the fear that was washing away with the sweat that had poured beneath his clothes. 

“I’m okay, Harry.” Came Draco’s muffled voice, thick with exhaustion. Draco was running his still cold fingertips along the bones that stood out on the backs of Harry’s possessive hands. “I’m okay.” 

“But, what if you hadn’t been?” And Harry let himself sink with the dread that had bubbled up out of him. The horror. The fear. The knowledge that he hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been able to protect Draco. Hadn’t been there to keep him safe. His hands curled in and he felt his nails catch across Draco’s flesh, and he couldn’t help how tightly he gripped him, as the fear held him just so mercilessly. 

“Shh, Harry. I’m okay.” Draco was falling into sleep, and Harry let him. And it was only once Draco’s breaths were sleep even and his body slack in the warmth and the safety beneath the duvet that Harry let himself break. And the sobs overtook him. 

Far above, between thick clouds and the arcing dome of the night sky, two thestrals circled, nickering soft and grateful cries. 

_________

 

Hours later, as the wind picked up and whistled around the frozen fields of the hollow, Harry awoke with a start. The fire had died down, lingering coals glowing red in the bed of ash, the cold seeping into the cracks and corners of the cabin. Harry rubbed the sleep from his swollen eyes, his mind prickling with the sense that something had wrenched him from sleep. Something sinister. 

And then he heard it again. The slow, musical howl of a wolf. 

Harry slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Draco, who was curled around a pillow, deep within the folds of sleep. He padded to the kitchen window, peering out into the night, the snow falling heavily now, thick and chaotic in the swirling winter winds. 

At the edge of the clearing, near the copse of blackthorn trees, he caught sight of a silvery figure. He watched the small wolf, with it’s large and pointed ears, tip it’s head back, nose to the sky, another carrying howl across the dark of the forest. At the sight of it, Harry felt his fear fade. There was something familiar. Something comforting about the way the little wolf stood so graceful and resolute in the snow. It was not a timber wolf. Not a wolf of the north, slight and small and with long and dainty legs, howl so much more like song. He walked to the door and pulled it ajar, the wind instantly spilling into the warmth of the cabin, snowflakes whipped up from around their single step beyond the door and forming eddies in the air around Harry’s bare legs. 

Hestia’s voice met him on the wind, tired but full of care and gentleness. Just as he knew her. “Everyone’s safe. We’ve reinforced the wards at Grimmauld Place and I took Neville, Juniper and Alethea to help me secure the office in Hogsmeade, and we’ve got excellent cover stories for the ministry and the prophet both. Stay out of sight until we can meet. Keep safe. You and Draco. Let us do what we need to here. We have a plan.” 

With that, the little wolf took one last look at Harry before trotting off between the trees, the silvery light quick to fade in the dark and snowy world. 

________

 

As the sun rose, Harry was already running his morning circuit around the hollow, breaths coming hard from the months away, his body forgetting the demanding nature of the mountainside. He was panting as he jogged through the Blackthorns and across the frozen stream to the Rowan grove, his magic lingering and golden in the knots of the wych elm and the frozen banks of Alice’s stream. He looped up to the foot of the mountains in the Northwest before coming back along the ravine in the South, renewing his spells. His vows to the forest. His promise to keep this sacred place safe, just as it had kept them. 

As he ran, he let the tension of the night before thrum and break with every footfall. 

When he finally emerged from the thick canopy of the trees and into the open field of snow that covered the hollow, he stopped, hands on hips, catching his breath. His lungs burned with the cold air, and the rising sun casting light across the snow and ice blinded him a moment. 

Shielding his eyes from the glare, Harry caught a glimpse of Draco, standing on the stoop of the cabin, leaning back against the stone wall, a giant blanket draped around his shoulders, a steaming mug of tea between both his hands. His cheeks were pink in the cold, but his posture was relaxed. Harry smiled up at him and was greeted with the smallest twitch of the corner of his mouth in return. 

“I want to stay here.” Draco said, watching Harry approach, his shoes crunching in the snow that had since been coated with a thick layer of crusted ice. “This is where we belong, Harry.” 

Harry stopped, relief surging around him. He leaned against the wiggentree they had planted together, now tall and strong, even in the face of the cold, ice frozen on the tips of its branches, waiting for new leaves to finally find their way to unfurl in spring. 

He was relieved to hear these words from Draco’s mouth. He had thought they would argue. He had thought Draco would cling to the idea that he would make it work living in Hogsmeade, that he could still be immersed in his life amongst the everyday magical world. That he could be safe. 

But it was, he remembered, Draco who had said he didn’t want to stay normal. Draco who was so eager to be chosen. To be special. To throw himself into this life. A place where he could do good. Bring hope and happiness. A life so entrenched in their forest home. 

“We’ll stay.” Harry said, smiling, pushing off the tree and walking the last few steps to Draco, climbing the one single step onto the stoop with him. 

“This is home.” And Harry leaned in, kissing his pink cheek, the steam of his tea, ginger Harry guessed by the smell, rising around both of them. Lingering. 

Above the stoop, in the old nest that was just visible beneath the snow, were two Ptarmigans, resplendent in winter plumage, churtling softly to one another.

______  
November 5, 2009

Harry stood with his back against the frozen granite, sheets of ice scattered about the stone faces. Snow was only visible in cracks and crevices where the wind hadn’t swept it away and down into the forest below. His hands were deep in the pockets of Sirius’ jacket and he had swept his hair back into an untidy bun, the wind still able to flit at errant tendrils. He leaned against the rock with one foot up behind him, his knee peeking out from a hole in his now tattered jeans.

His eyes were closed, face tipped up to the weakest winter sun, the light brittle and pale against the mountain top. His magic kept him from freezing, but only just. He wanted to feel the winter, the bite and the chill, the power of the cold. It had been long since he had come here. Had climbed the mountain and sprawled out in the sun, watching the thestrals dive and cavort amongst the soft clouds of a summer sky. 

The horizon was empty of the dark beasts, and only Flea stood beside him, milky glass eyes surveying the vast expanse of forest in the distance, jutting out from their cliffside perch. In Harry’s pocket, he ran his thumb along a circlet of birchwood he had carved that morning. The wood had made itself empty and plain and the soft grain felt almost needy for magic. For purpose. 

“Just like me.” Harry said, opening his eyes and smiling fondly at Flea, who had snorted at the words. 

Harry reached up and ran his hand beneath the ratty mane that covered Flea’s bony neck, his fingers sliding around individual vertebrae and along the arching curve of the string of bones. Flea leaned into the touch, pressing his skeletal face into Harry’s chest. It was a well practiced move, and Harry reached up to rub beneath his forelock without thinking, soft leathery skin against his roughened hands.

“I think I’m ready for whatever’s next, Flea. I think we’re ready. Me, and Draco.” Harry said softly, looking South. He could just barely make out the outline of Hogwarts’ castle turrets in the distance.   

Flea shoved Harry gently and snorted again. Harry laughed and pushed him back playfully. The great beast unfurled his wings and made as if to nip playfully at Harry’s shoulder, which he dodged easily, still laughing at the beast’s antics. 

“Are you bored up here with me? Sitting around agonising about choices?” Harry goaded the giant thestral, who was in the throws of a full body shake, as if he was throwing off the layer of indecision and inactivity that had plagued the last few weeks. Months. Years, maybe. 

Flea nickered softly, ruffling just the tips of his wings, as if so eager to fly. His glassy eyes still hadn’t left Harry. 

“Oh alright you incorrigible bastard. Come on. Let’s go.” Harry pushed himself off from the rock and stretched his arms over his shoulders, a playful smirk on his face. 

“Try and catch me early this time.” Harry looked out to the South again a moment, the sheer cliff of the ledge dropping over 1000 meters to the next granite outcropping. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, ensuring his boots were firmly planted against solid rock, curling his hands into fists. 

And then he took off, running straight at the ledge, leaping into the air with a whoop, the air leaving his lungs and he seemed to hang a moment, suspended, before gravity took hold and he plummeted toward the earth below, as if in a graceful dive, arms outstretched before him. 

Above the rushing of air against frozen ears, Harry could hear the wingbeats behind him, could sense the dark shadow that fell between him and that brittle sun as Flea leapt from the ledge behind him, the giant beast swooping beneath him, then past him, coasting just beneath his outstretched hands as he fell, Harry’s fingers twisting into that ratty mane, gripping tight as the beast pulled them both from freefall, Harry’s knees sliding into place along Flea’s bony ribs, the two of them gliding out across the trees. 

Harry’s whooping and laughter rang out in the cold, clear air. In the highlands to the West, Harry could just hear a golden eagle call. 

_______

 

Harry returned to the hollow to find Draco knitting by the fire, a half finished letter on the table beside him. He was counting stitches, knitting needle between his teeth, brow furrowed in concentration. Harry knew better than to interrupt him, and set about making tea, his face still burning from the rushing cold of the wind and feeling all the lighter and more carefree for it. 

“Oh Helena’s left tit. I’ve missed a stitch.” There was a clattering sound as Draco threw what had looked like the beginnings of a tiny sock onto the table, heaving himself to his feet. He was wearing that maroon top that Harry loved so much, and his blonde hair was sticking up at an odd angle in the back. 

Harry didn’t say anything, but smiled into his freshly steeping mug of mint tea, the chip radiantly familiar in the lip by the handle. He reached for the mug he had prepared Draco and passed it to him silently, watching Draco sniff at it, obviously still peppered at the audacity of his own knitting. 

Harry took a sip, still watching Draco. The last few days they had slipped back into their forest routine, deftly avoiding the subject of the ministry’s attempt to intervene in their lives, Draco picking up his old crafts as if nothing had changed. Harry hadn’t questioned him on what had happened too intently, as he could still see how rattled it made him, but Draco had told him it was the talisman that Harry carved that had saved him. And Harry had felt himself unclench just a little at hearing it. 

“You’ve decided then.” 

Harry looked up at Draco’s words, the other man surveying him shrewdly. His eyes were narrowed and the mug of tea was suspended halfway to his lips, steaming and giving nothing away.  
  
“Decided what?” Harry raised an eyebrow, sipping at his own scalding tea. It burnt his tongue and he quickly set it back down on the counter, silently cursing himself. 

“That you’re ready for what comes next.” Draco tapped a finger against the rim of his mug, eyes finally leaving Harry and glancing down into his tea. His voice was quieter, and Harry had no idea how Draco had known, but he was pleased that he could tell. At the same time, Harry realised, Draco was ready too. He was ready, and nervously knitting, and missing stitches. 

“Are you trying to tell me you’re ready to go to Hogsmeade?” Harry had skipped all of the banter in between. It was like that, now. Between the two of them. 

Harry left his chipped mug on the counter, and gently guided Draco’s own mug from his hands back down onto the unassuming slab of wood, and the two men stood facing each other. Harry was drawing him in close, hands first on Draco’s, then guiding up his arms and back down, soothing and soft. Draco sighed deeply, letting Harry’s attentions wash over him. 

“Hestia wants us to come to the practice. To move the research materials they didn’t manage to steal, to pack up our things. She and Neville and someone named Juniper have been so kind to take care of all that cleaning for us - it sounds like they left quite a mess. Bubotubor pus and porcupine quills all over - together they let off quite an acrid steam, you know - Oh, and coupled with the quail eggs...”

Harry let him nervously ramble a bit, bringing a hand up to push the hair out of his face and smooth down the back where he had slept on it funny. He let a thumb drag across his cheek as he spoke. Slow and soft and careful. 

Draco was leaning against him now, melting into his chest, worries all tumbling out around them and falling away in the warmth of the cabin and the sureness of Harry’s touch. 

“My poor bonsais.” Draco sniffed, his head now tucked against Harry’s shoulder. “They’re probably irreparably damaged.” 

Harry huffed a soft laugh into Draco’s hair. “I’ll wager that fig is as strong as ever. Probably took the chance to uproot the stinkwood once and for all, take over a whole new pot.” 

Harry could feel Draco smiling against his chest. 

“Do you want me there?” Harry asked softly. He had thought long and hard about it. His initial reaction, of course, was to never let Draco out of his sight ever again. To play guard dog, obsessively, until the day they both died of exhaustion. But, upon further reflection, he had realised that is a poor attempt at a happy life. And, it was belittling. Draco was a powerful wizard in his own right. He was more than capable. Babysitting him would be infantilising. Plus, letting his own obsessive neurosis run his life had not panned out well in the past. 

“No.” Draco pulled back a half step and rubbed his face with both his hands. “Hestia is going to help me with it all, and she said Juniper had been a huge help with things too, so between the three of us we should be just fine. Plus, it’s not like you can shadow me every time I want to see clients - I know you’d prefer if I just became a complete hermit, but we agreed that three days a week at the practice is more than reasonable. I have my work. And my patients. You have your own life to live too, Harry.” 

Harry grunted, chewing the inside of his lip. He hadn’t quite worked through all the worrying about Draco wanting to see patients there still, but Hestia had told Harry to trust her to make sure it’s safe. And he did. He had to. Trust was part of the process. An annoying and vulnerable part. 

“When does she want you there?” Harry said, watching Draco readjust the maroon sweater to cover his shoulders, distracted by the skin beneath them, by the way he had become so brave. Harry wondered if the sorting hat could take a peek inside their heads now, what it would say. Where it would sort them. 

“Tomorrow.” Draco had picked his tea back up and was heading back to his knitting. Calmer now. Reassured. Ready to unravel a few lines and hunt down the errant stitch. 

“Mmm.” Harry said, returning to his own tea and thoughts. 

_______

 

In bed that night, Harry dreamt of the great black dog. He was walking through the forest, footfalls deep in the soft powdery snow, tracks of a pine marten snaking between trees and golden light filtering down from a rising sun. 

He heard the familiar panting. Off to his left, a shadowy figure loping between the dense copse of Rowan trees. Harry walked on, his steps tracing a familiar path until he was emerging in his Rowan grove, quiet and still in the morning snow. Across from him, leaning against one of his favorite trees, was Sirius. He was young and jaunty and full of life, black hair long and effortless, smile crooked and genuine, broadening at the sight of Harry, running up his face and crinkling his eyes. Joy was painted all over him. 

Sirius laughed his big, barking, hearty laugh and pushed himself off the Rowan tree, walking soundlessly through the snow to Harry, his hands running through his hair and pressed over his smiling cheeks. As if they had never been sallow. 

When he gets to Harry, he pulls him into a hug, tight and furtive and they rock back and forth together with the fierceness of it. Sirius smells of oranges and dragon hide and woodsmoke and Harry can feel how real he is. The strength of him. The love. It’s in the feel of his ratty shirt beneath his fingers and the scratch of his stubble against his cheek and the absolute warmth of him, no matter that they stood in the cold, snowy world of the forest. 

Sirius grabs Harry’s shoulders and leans back to look at him, eyes still crinkling and smile still broad and beautiful and seemingly unceasing on his features. Handsome and young and effortless, as Sirius was always meant to be. 

“Gods, I’m so proud of you Harry. I’m so proud. We all are.” And Sirius’s voice is rough, not with disuse, but with joy. Bursting with it. 

Sirius ruffles Harry’s unkempt hair affectionately, still positively beaming at him. “I knew you’d make it, Harry. I knew you’d grow up and find your way. You’d chose to live. You’ve got so much love in you.” 

Harry’s eyes are filled with tears, and the dream swims in and out of focus for a moment, the sound of his breathing and the feeling of a great weight being lifted off his chest distracting him from the forest scene. He can hear a red deer calling in the distance. And a wolf howling. And it’s as if the forest is full of the same joy that is so evident in Sirius. 

“Keep Flea close, Harry. He’ll guide you. And I’ll come in dreams when you need me. I’m just across the veil. We all are. Even Snivellus is here.” Sirius rolls his eyes and he’s laughing, as if he is full of nothing but the brilliant shine of sunlight, reflected off the shimmering, icy forest. 

Sirius is still holding his shoulders and looking at him, and Harry can’t help the feeling that swells around them. Of being loved. So very loved. 

“Just one more thing before I go, Harry.” Sirius looks at him. His brown eyes are deep and soulful and Harry can, for the first time, see both the love and loyalty of the dog and the haunted measure of the Grim. 

“Moony wanted me to ask you to check in on Teddy, if you can.” 

And Harry is awake before he can reply, his hands reflexively reaching out in the dark. Draco lay beside him, fast asleep. 

_________

November 6, 2009

By the time the sun finally agreed to rise, Harry had already made himself three cups of tea. He’d made Draco one as well, but it was so long ago that it’s long since gone frigid and is criminally oversteeped, and Harry knows that Draco will never deign to drink such swill, so he’s left it sitting beneath the windowsill. 

The morning was cold, and the dying embers of the fire from the previous night were hardly keeping the floor just beyond the hearth warm anymore. Harry dressed quickly and quietly, wrapping himself up in one of the maroon and gold scarves that Draco had knit him, refreshing the warming charms so that when Draco does eventually rise, he wouldn’t be hypothermic just from getting dressed. He re-tied his hair up in a bun twice. 

Little Dipper, as it turned out, is not as picky as Draco, and Harry had just looked up in time to watch him happily clatter along the counter top to the unguarded mug, nibbling the rim of Draco’s cup curiously before attempting to stick his entire face into the cold tea. Harry’s spellwork was just quick enough to catch the tumbling mug and save it from shattering. 

“Dipper!” Harry hissed in the half light, and the owl flapped his wings, waggling his ear tufts as he hopped away back to the windowsill, completely unbothered by Harry’s feeble attempt at a reprimand. Harry cleaned the spilled tea with a wave of his hand and sets to boiling the kettle yet again. 

“You’re too soft with him. He gets away with murder, that one.” Draco’s voice was still thick with sleep, and Harry couldn’t help smiling to himself. He added a dash of lemon to the green tea as it steeped. Just the way Draco likes it. 

“I’ve made you tea.” 

“I’ll be fine, Harry.” 

“What, for the first time this century you don’t want tea in the morning?” Harry thought himself funny, and he chuckled at his own joke. He already knows Draco won’t not accept his morning tea. It’s how Harry ingratiates himself into Draco’s good books, each and every morning.  
“No, you prat, I meant I’ll be fine today. In Hogsmeade. You don’t have to worry so much.” Harry could hear the smile in Draco’s voice. He wondered when he became so transparent. Then realised he’s always been this transparent. 

Harry scowled down at the nest of soft down and pillows, handing over the newly steaming mug of tea. “Who says I’m worrying?”

Draco scoffed a laugh, not bothering to respond. He sipped the tea instead, cold hand wrapped around the warm pottery. Harry didn’t tell him it was Teddy he’d woken up early worrying about. 

_______

 

Harry had left Flea at the edge of the forest by the lake, and walked the rest of the way up to the castle. Friday morning, and the place was bustling with life. It felt warmer than their hollow, if not for the many lives that inhabited this place, bursting at the seams with magic. 

He jogged up the grand staircase, pausing to ask a Hufflepuff prefect where he could find the Hufflepuff first years, and was told they were just about to finish Defense Against the Dark Arts before lunch. The prefect, so eager and with a kind, round face, had even asked Harry if he needed directions, which had caused the old hag in the portrait behind them to cackle wildly, and Harry had only just excused himself up to the right corridor before she had given away his true identity. He heard the prefect gasp just as he rounded the corner and ducked into a hidden passage behind a landscape that would bring him out just by the Defense classroom.

Harry waited a moment while the hall ahead of him filled with students, little Hufflepuffs in their black robes with yellow ties, chattering away. Harry could see Elphias Doge’s pointed hat far above the crowd of comparatively tiny students, heading down to the great hall for lunch, apparently continuing his lecture on the use of green sparks in duelling as he went, his wheeze audible from down the hall.  

Harry paused in the doorway, watching the last few straggler students shoving books and parchment into haphazard bags. At the very back of the room, beneath a flush of light blue hair, big brown eyes looked up and saw Harry. 

Harry smiled, and waited for the last two students to hurry by before walking up to Teddy. He looked a little more disheveled than the last time he had seen him. His eyes were puffy, and shoelaces were untied. He had a smudge of dirt across one cheek. 

“Hi Teddy,” Harry said, helping him gather some errant parchment and a quill that had rolled across the desk. When Harry leaned closer, he could see the smudge of dirt was hiding a bruise. 

“Hi.” His voice was smaller than Harry remembered. There was another scrape on his elbow.

“How have you been, Teddy?” Harry’s voice was soft. He agonised for a moment whether or not to tell him that his father was the one who had sent Harry. His father was the one checking in on him, just as his father had checked in on Harry in this very room, all those years ago. 

“I’m okay.” He was looking down at his feet, scuffing one toe of his untied shoes against the floor. 

“Are the other kids still being mean to you?” Harry knelt down and lifted Teddy’s chin, surveying the mark on his cheek critically. “That doesn’t look like a bruise from pick-up quidditch, Teddy.” 

“They pick on me because I’m small. And I’m not great at magic, yet. They took my wand yesterday and I had to fight one of them to get it back.” Teddy looked angry for a moment, but it paled in comparison to the rage that flooded through Harry. 

“Did you tell a teacher, Teddy?” 

“They were Gryffindors. Everyone thinks they’re above that kind of thing. No one takes me seriously.” Teddy said softly, eyeing Harry’s red and gold scarf. 

Harry clenched his jaw. Teddy must have noticed how angry it had made Harry, to hear these stories, bullying and hurting kids just for their size. For their magical talent, or lack thereof.

“It’s ok, Harry. I’m learning to fend for myself. Me and my friend, Thor.” Harry took a deep breath and looked at his eager little face light up at the mention of his friend. “He’s in Slytherin and he gets it even worse than me. He’s also an orphan, you know, and even littler. He’s got such thick glasses! And a lisp!” 

Harry couldn’t help but smile at Teddy’s enthusiasm for his friend. Another orphan. Another of the abandoned boys who ended up at Hogwarts. A Slytherin. Named Thor, no less. 

Harry straightened up and walked to the front of the room, digging in the ancient desk drawers for anything he could use as a pretend wand. “Teddy,” he said, new enthusiasm in his voice, as he finally find a bit of birch branch. “I’m going to teach you something you can use to defend yourself. Get out your wand and stand just here across from me.” 

Teddy did as he was told, and Harry turned to him, grinning. 

“Ok, now, repeat after me. _Expelliarmus_!” 

____________

 

It was twenty minutes later when the birch branch finally went flying across the room, and Teddy howled and whooped in excitement, his hair changing color to neon yellow as he did a victory lap around the room. 

“I can’t wait to show Thor!” He positively shouted at Harry, who was chuckling to himself, leaning back against the desk. “Harry he’s positively dreadful at spells. You should see him. Sometimes he tries to blame it on his asthma medication, but I think it’s the anxiety.” Teddy was nodding, knowingly. 

“You know, Teddy, when I was at Hogwarts, we had a club where we learned extra spells to keep safe. And it helped us make friends. Friends we could count on if we needed help.” 

Teddy stopped his victory lap, his hair changing back to bright blue, much brighter even than it was when Harry had first walked in. “Really? That sounds like so much fun!” 

“You could start a club too, Teddy. If you wanted.” 

Teddy stopped in the middle of the room, using his wand to absently scratch in his hair, contemplating what Harry had said. “Will you come teach us like you did today? I don’t know enough magic to learn anything but Expelliarmus, really. It’d be much more fun with you there. And you could meet Thor!” 

Harry opened his mouth to reply, thinking of course he couldn’t, no, that wouldn’t be possible. But, before he could answer, a stern Scottish voice interrupted his thoughts. “Of course he can, Mr. Lupin. I’ll keep Tuesday evenings at seven o’clock free. You can use this classroom after dinner.” 

Harry looked up, his mouth still hanging open, and Minerva McGonagall gave him an equally stern and knowing look, as if chastising him for even thinking of refusing. Her eyes were bright.

“Now, Mr. Lupin, Mr. Rowle has been looking for you. He forgot his inhaler in the greenhouses and is too scared to go look for it on his own. Please go and accompany him, before he has another hypoxic event. Poppy still hasn’t recovered properly from the last one.” 

“Oh no, his inhaler!” Teddy grabbed his bag from the back of the room, then hugged Harry quickly on his way out. “Thank you, Harry! See you on Tuesday!” 

Harry watched him go, completely dumbfounded. 

“I’ll expect you to keep your promise to that boy, Mr. Potter.” Minerva was dabbing at her eyes with her tartan handkerchief. “Otherwise, I’ll be forced to inform the house elves to cease the unending supply of food to your forest hideaway. I expect you and Mr. Malfoy both to earn your keep.” 

“But, Professor, I…” Harry stammered, unsure of how to begin. 

“Honestly, Mr. Potter, it always amazed me you never chose teaching. You’ve quite a gift for it. It’s about time you stopped futzing around and followed your true calling. The children need you. I’ve got about seven who I’ll be sending to your first DA meeting. That’s what I assume you’ll be calling it, that is?” She sniffed. “Dumbledore’s Army, still recruiting?” 

Harry sighed deeply, smiling at her. How could he possibly refuse? And it’s what he’d wanted, in any case. A way to give back. To help prevent the spiral before it ever happened.  

She gave him a rare smile, tucking her handkerchief back beneath her robes. 

“Seven. On Tuesday.” Harry agrees. His mind is already whirling with ideas for his first lesson. 

_______

On returning to the hollow, Harry was bursting with ideas. Depulso? Point me? What spell, what magic could he impart on the children McGonagall was going to hand pick for him to teach? Would they know who he was? What he did in the war? Would he have to talk about the war? About who were the good guys and who were the bad guys? Would little Thor understand that his dad was a bad guy, but that didn’t make Thor bad? Would the other children understand? What was it like being eleven? 

He was full to bursting with thoughts, questions, ideas. Underneath all of it, like currents of electricity, excitement. He was thrilled. Nervous, yes. Terrified, really. It was so much responsibility, and so unexpected. He had so much on his plate already, really. What with Grimmauld Place just taking off and the ever-present threat of the Ministry and their cronies. And now, this? Teaching? 

Was he ready?

Harry ran from where Flea had landed, his feet quick along the half melted snow of the meadow, little patches of earth visible where the sun had managed to warm the ground enough. 

“Draco!” He was yelling his name by the time he was halfway up the little sloping hillside. 

“You won’t believe what’s happened!” Harry was grinning ear to ear. Happiness poured across him, bursting, radiant. 

It was then that Little Dipper swooped down, a soft hoot escaping him as he dropped a heavy letter in his outstretched hands. Harry stopped and looked down. Something about it. It felt heavy. Cold. 

The happiness bled away. Dread began creeping it’s way up from the soles of his feet, winding slow tendrils along his calves and knees and the cold reaching his thighs. He felt rooted to the spot. Suddenly. So suddenly. It was hard to breathe. 

In the distance, he heard the cabin door open, and Draco’s voice was muffled. As if he were speaking through water. As if Harry were beyond thick glass. Partitioned from the world. Only existing here, and now, with this letter, so heavy in his hands. 

He opened it carefully. 

 

_Harry,_

 

_We’ve lost one of our own._

_Sylvia is gone. This morning. Come to Grimmauld Place._

_I need you._

_We all need you._

 

_\- Hestia_

 

And Harry is on his knees, jeans now soaking up the melted snow, soft and still so cold in the mud, in the space where the sun had tried so hard to warm the earth. And he can’t breathe. Of course he can’t. How could he? They had lost one of their own. 

Gone.

Just so.

 _Sylvia_. 

________

 

It’s dark when the crack of apparition sounds again in Tenebris Hollow. Winter has returned, the cold retaking the earth as the sun moves to warm other, distant lands. The melted snow has since refrozen into ice, sharp and unforgiving in the faint light of stars, half hidden by clouds. 

Harry doesn’t look up at the sky, nor does he slip as he walks purposefully back to the cabin, hands balled into fists at his sides. His shoulders are high and tight beneath his cloak. A cloak he is already pulling off as he ducks beneath the sag of the roof just before the door. He welcomes the cold. The chill that hits his skin is near painful. Stinging. It’s distracting for a moment, from his own searing pain. He waits a moment, letting the cold whip the sweat from his skin. 

Draco is sitting in bed reading when Harry opens the door, wide and forceful, a shock of cold nipping at his heels. He doesn’t look up, but concentrates, really concentrates on closing the door without slamming it. On hanging the cloak up without shredding the soft fabric in his hands. On unlacing his boots. Undoing his belt. Every movement is slow and deliberate and takes all of his energy. All of his focus. Because it has to. Because if he lets himself drift for even a moment, he thinks of her, laying there in bed. He thinks of the slip of steel still hanging on in her cold, cold skin. If he stops focusing, he’ll think of the peaceful look on her face. And that. That’s what will take him. Grip him, all of him, painful and sure and oh, so convincing. 

But Sylvia in death is not nearly as painful as thinking of her in life. Her beautiful smile and the way she used to reach for Harry. The way her bangles accented every move she made. Every wild movement. She was like music. She was a symphony. Complex and moving but thrumming with something so very human. So close to home. _Home_. 

And now? Now it is so, so quiet. 

No. He needs to be purposeful. Because, if he’s not. He’ll think of Hestia. 

He’ll think of the way Hestia cried. The way it broke her. To lose not just a battle but the whole goddamn war. How every moment of the strongest woman he knows was marred with the pain of it all. How she had beat her fists against his chest and screamed and wailed. As if language would never contain her grief. As if sound itself - her throat pulling and vibrating and tearing at the air - would not, could not ever contain Hestia and her grief. 

How she had cried. A deluge. A summer storm, thunder and lightning and tears in freefall, as if all she wanted was the whole wide world to drown with her, drown in an ocean, a sea made for Sylvia, borne of the love of Hestia. 

Bury it, he thinks. Bury it. Swallow it down. 

His jaw is clenched tight. His back is wire, strung tight across bones that hunger. That pull and keen and cinch tight. That hold all of that tension, all of that desperate purposeful containing. Control. 

And it’s not enough. Because he can feel his hands shaking and he can hear his teeth grinding and he needs somewhere to put all of this. All of this anger. It’s eating him up inside and he can’t hear because his ears have filled with the rushing of his own blood and his heart, fast and frantic and vengeful won’t let him have a moment’s peace. A moment’s rest. 

When he turns back around to the room, Draco is standing, moving toward him. Draco’s mouth is moving and Harry thinks he’s saying his name. 

But he can’t hear anything but buzzing. Rushing, beating, buzzing. It’s chaotic and so familiar. Because he’s fallen into a swarm of bees - and they’re running along his skin and reminding him of all the ways he could drown with Sylvia. Maybe, he too could look peaceful in death. 

The thought scares him. Everything feels so out of control. Fear buzzes too, now, in his ears it’s growing louder and Harry is frantic to maintain his purposeful control. Frantic. And angry. So angry.

He needs a place to bury it. 

And Draco is there. 

Harry reaches out and pulls Draco toward him, his hands sliding familiarly along the tops of his thighs and around his ass, lifting him up, pinning him to the nearest wall. Draco hisses as he hits the cold stone, rough and uneven, and Harry presses into him, pinning him with his hips. There’s a moment of stillness as they breathe, Harry’s blood surging through him, hot and uncomfortable, his eyes trained on Draco’s mouth. Pink and soft and just barely parted, wet from Draco nervously licking his lips. Harry wants to ruin it. Desperately. He wants to ruin that beautiful, soft mouth more than he’s ever wanted anything ever before. 

So he pins Draco with his hips, his cock painfully hard, digging into the soft flesh of Draco’s hip, and Draco tries to complain but Harry’s kissing him. Kissing that perfect mouth, biting his lip plump and growling into his throat. 

Bury it. And it’s all he can think. 

He pulls back a moment, eyes still trained on Draco’s lips. He’s made them bruised and swollen and the image runs through his veins like fire. He pulls back and palms his cock, Draco is just barely standing, his silken pyjama top pulled skew from the rough rock behind him, a slip of pale skin of his belly on display. His palms are clutching at the stone behind him, as if they are what’s keeping him upright. 

Harry undoes his jeans, no longer deliberate and purposeful, but rough and desperate, his eyes not wavering from Draco. From Draco’s bruised and swollen lips. He leans his left hand by Draco’s head, his ears still full of the sounds of rushing blood. He’s panting. 

“Draco. Please.” 

And Draco slides the rest of the way to the floor, his hands reaching up to Harry’s cock. They’re infuriatingly gentle. Soft. And Harry can think of nothing but how he needs more. More. He’s growling, deep and guttural and angry, spilling out of him. He wants to ruin all of Draco’s softness. 

“I want to fuck your mouth.” 

Draco looks up at Harry, eyes wide and shining. They look glazed. Unfocused. 

Something in Harry breaks. 

And the anger is gone and the all consuming lust is gone and Harry feels so very cold. And clammy. 

It’s disgust. Disgust runs across his skin and he shrinks away from himself, falling and stumbling backwards. Away from Draco. Away from this horrible thing he’s done. This horrible thing he’s become.

He moves away so fast and so completely, he’s hit the opposite wall before he crumples to the floor, his cock soft and he’s incapable of understanding what to do with his hands because all he knows. All he knows is that he is a monster. 

And all of his demons are here in the room. And look what they have done to the man he loves. 

They stare at each other across the room, and Harry can feel himself going pale and he’s hyperventilating and all of the buzzing is back and it’s eating him alive and all of his demons are taking their pounds of flesh and he can feel nothing but horror. Complete horror. 

What has he done? 

Big, gulping gasping breaths, and now he’s crying. Sobbing. Sitting there on the floor, legs haphazard and pants still undone, hands white knuckled on the floor beside him and he can’t look away from Draco. He can’t look away because he loves him. And he _hurt_ him. 

The two of them stare at each other from across the bear skin, the same one that Harry had dragged out into the summer field to watch the stars, and Harry can’t breathe. He can’t breathe because he’s drowning. All of the grief and the horror is piling up around him and suffocating him and even now, as he’s clawing at his throat, he cannot breathe. 

It’s Draco who comes back to himself first. It’s Draco who crawls across the rug to Harry, who shushes him and holds him while he cries. It’s Draco who forgives him. 

It takes four hours for Harry to tell him. To tell him everything. To let all of the pain and heartbreak and fear roll out into the room. To let all of his anger soak into the stones. 

And through it all. Through it all, Draco keeps him afloat. 

Neither of them drowns. 

________

November 10, 2009

Sylvia’s funeral is the same day as Harry’s first DA meeting. He spent the whole morning at Grimmauld Place. Contained. Safe. Letting the grief take its turn. Take its flesh.

Felix is there. They cry together. They all do. The odd family they had made, broken and feeble in the wake of a tragedy. Hestia delivers a beautiful eulogy, and Greg doesn’t stop crying through every word, and neither does Luna. And Harry doesn’t feel so alone in his grief after that. 

They put Sylvia in the ground, together. In a circle, as they all used to sit. Vulnerable, still. Dennis casts the first bit of earth that covers her, and Harry lends himself to the work of filling the grave, throwing shovelful after shovelful of near black earth, rich and loamy, into the hole. Filling it up. Burying her. As he’s buried so many others. 

He washes his muddied hands and apparates away to the gates of Hogwarts, making the long trek up to the castle in the growing dark of the evening, candlelights burning in tower windows, ambient noise streaming from the great hall as he slips in the castle entrance and makes a dash for the defense room upstairs. 

He’s early, so he moves the desks to one side. He wants them all to sit in a circle. To get to know one another. To talk. His eyes are puffy and probably still red, but he doesn’t mind. Let them see, he thinks. 

He knows what he’s going to tell them this first lesson. This first meeting is going to be about the importance of friendship. Of having people to lean on, to rely on, to reach out to when you’re in the dark. When you’re worried you’re alone. When you can feel the dread come rushing down upon you. When you stop feeling like you can breathe. 

Because true defense against the dark arts is just that. Bonds of friendship. Love. It’s the most powerful magic in the world, and it saved Harry. It saved him time and time again, and it will save him far into his future. Because darkness isn’t defeated alone. Darkness is drowned out of the circle by the light of many faces and the warmth of many beating hearts. Together. 

The opposite of addiction is connection, he thinks to himself, sitting on the desk in the front of the room, the heels of his trainers kicking idly at the old slab of wood. Connection. 

Teddy is the first to arrive. He’s so excited, chatting away and zipping about the room, arms waving wildly, that Harry doesn’t have a chance to notice the boy who slips in behind him. He’s so small. So very small and slight and his glasses are so incredibly huge, propped up on comically large ears, not hidden at all by bright blonde, nearly white, hair. Harry notices all of this only because the boy walks right up to Harry, sticks out his hand and says, very matter of factly (with a very thick lisp), “Hi Mr. Harry, I’m Thor. I’m Teddy’s best friend and he taught me expelliarmus and I used it yesterday on a 5th year and it was excellent.” 

“It really was excellent, Harry!” Teddy shouts as he runs another lap around the room. 

Thor looks immensely pleased with himself. Harry is laughing, looking down at the coke bottle glasses, wide magnified eyes and the inhaler that’s been spellotaped to one of the straps of his very muggle backpack, complete with a batman symbol. 

He’s distracted nearly at once by the next three children who enter the room. Two girls in Ravenclaw blue and a boy in Gryffindor red, hanging back slightly. The two girls look slightly older, perhaps second or third year, one blonde with a royal blue bow threaded through her long plait, the other dark skinned like Harry, willowy and with a slightly haughty aire. He was almost reminded of Pansy Parkinson, though he couldn’t particularly pinpoint why. Perhaps it was the way she was scrunching up her nose. 

The blonde girl nodded in Harry’s direction before wandering into the centre of the room, surveying Teddy and Thor. The second girl introduced herself as Freya Rookwood, holding her hand out for Harry to shake. She flipped her chin indolently at the girl she had entered with, “and that’s Orelia Pepper. She’s mute.” Freya rolled her eyes dramatically, and Harry took a moment to recover from the minefield of interpersonal hostility that coloured the interaction. Recovering quickly, Harry greeted them both, indicating that they could join Thor and Teddy in making a circle in the centre of the room. They arranged themselves far from one another, avoiding eye contact, and Harry sighed softly to himself. McGonagall had sent him enemies. Enemies. Children from opposite sides of the war, indeed. 

None of the adolescent psychology books he had borrowed from Luna had prepared him for this. He rubbed his hands together, nervously. 

The Gryffindor boy had watched this interaction, and once the girls moved off, he hadn’t moved forward. In fact, he hadn’t stopped staring at Harry, mouth agape, slightly in awe. He was a portly boy, all rounded edges, the theme perfectly accented by his bowl haircut, his black hair flat and a bit stringy. 

“But… but… you’re Harry Potter.” His voice was incredulous. Bewildered. 

Harry nodded at him, very solemnly. “Yes. Yes, that is true. I am Harry Potter.” He let his mock serious face break into a wide smile. 

“And you are?”

“Edgar. Edgar Bones.” He stumbled a bit as he came forward, holding out his hand at a near ninety degree angle. He couldn’t stop looking Harry up and down and up and down and taking in every detail of him. Harry felt self conscious for a moment about his rather tatty jeans and the Queen t-shirt he’d thrown on that morning, but he let his worries slide away. He wanted to be relaxed and comfortable. He wanted to be himself. No pretending he was the kind of person to don austere robes that so suited Minerva McGonagall, or the sweeping, dramatic black cape of Severus Snape. No, he was allowed to wear muggle clothes. Muggle clothes that made him relaxed and happy. Approachable. 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Edgar. Have a seat so long. We’re only waiting for two more.” 

Edgar Bones wobbled off to stand next to Thor, who was applying some kind of thick cream to his cheeks. Teddy was helping, though he was getting an awful lot on both of the boy’s robes in his enthusiasm. It looked rather like green sunblock, thick and sticky, and Harry thought he caught a whiff of bulbadox powder. 

Edgar was watching them both, his eyebrows creasing in the middle. “What’s that for?” 

“He got stung by dragon gnats in the greenhouse earlier and swelled up like a balloon. Madame Pomfrey said he’s allergic. He got such a horrible rash afterward. The knotgrass we were harvesting was full of them!” Teddy explained, waving the tube of cream wildly for emphasis. 

“Oh.” Said Edgar. 

“Madame Pomfrey says I’m medically complex.” Came Thor’s muffled voice, Teddy busy coating his upper lip and nose in the thick green paste. 

Freya snorted a little laugh at this, and Harry had to stifle his own huff of amusement. There was something so incredibly endearing about the little Slytherin, though he could easily imagine he was putting the school nurse through her paces. 

Thor and Teddy both had tensed, Teddy quickly putting the tube of paste back into Thor’s batman backpack, resuming his spot in the circle with his head down, hair fading from blue to black. Thor hiccoughed softly. 

Harry turned and greeted the last two students. Two more Slytherins. A boy and a girl, the boy simultaneously sullen and sneering, and Harry instantly recognised the pettiness that consumed Draco in his moments of self conscious ill-ease. The girl looked timid. Unsure. They both surveyed the others, then looked at each other with a knowing glance. The boy, whose thick curly hair had been pulled down into neat cornrows muttered “I told you.” 

“Welcome,” Harry interrupted. “I’m Harry. And you two are?”

“Aldora Runcorn.” Said the girl, her voice more nervous than her housemate’s. She looked up and down at Harry, much the same way Edgar had. She seemed to be waiting for Harry to hold her surname against her. 

“I’m glad you’ve joined us, Aldora. Have a seat in the circle and we’ll start just now.” 

“I’m Winston Travers.” He said his name imperiously. As if it should mean something intimidating. Harry could see the ghost of Draco’s eleven year old self reaching out for a handshake. Draco’s pale blonde hair had been slicked back, Winston’s braids producing a similar effect, his cheekbones just as high as Draco’s, skin the colour of honey. 

He shook Winston’s hand and gazed down at him. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Winston Travers.” 

Harry could tell, already, that he would have his hands full with this one. 

________

 

“Lumos!” And Thor’s wand tip ignited, flaring to life. There was a raucous bout of applause, cheering and a deafening whistle of triumph from Orelia. 

Harry was laughing and clapping loudly with the rest, his heart soaring at the look on Thor’s face, basking in the light of his wand, in the cheers of new companions. 

Harry had tried to tell them what friendship could do. What support and understanding would bring. How it would be the force against the dark. But this, this is what they needed to see. What encouraging words and kindness could do to magic. How that alone could bring light where there was once only dark. 

Harry had thanked them all, promised to reconvene next week, and made his own way back down the steps of the castle to the edge of the forest. To Flea, and the hollow beyond. 

_______

 

Draco was waiting for him on the stoop with a cup of tea, the sun having set hours ago. Harry and Flea alighted in the clearing, and Harry jumped down, eager to recount his day. His victories. His triumphs. 

He had mulled it over the flight back. He had lost Sylvia. But, in the shadow of her loss he had gained the start of something brilliant and luminous and immense. Something he knew he could build. That would give him a place and a purpose, that would feed him. Sustain him. Sustain others. Build others. Build light against the dark. Something that could start to heal the raw, open wounds of the war that lived on in the orphans it had left behind and the children who had grown up in the wake of fear and cruelty. 

Something where he could do good. 

And, flying low over the expanse of dark green, other thestrals from the Hogwarts herd occasionally swooping and diving by his side, playful and just as invigorated as he felt, he had realised something. He had realised that doing good. That warding off death. Off pain, and misery and despair. It wasn’t in the huge heroics of his youth. It wasn’t about self sacrifice, not anymore. Cultivating life. Saving lives. It was in the smallest of every day moments. It was in kindness and care. In telling a child they were important. In letting them cry. In validation of their dreams. Comfort in the face of their fears.

Reminders of their importance. That they are loved. And that love matters. 

Tiny, seemingly insignificant moments. Every day, human moments. Those were how Harry could save lives. Could own his role as death herder. As guardian against suffering. Against fear. A way that he did not fight death, for that was not the point, and Dumbledore, for all his faults, had shown him that, at the very least. Death is a universal truth. But death did not always mean tragedy. 

For death wasn’t the enemy. Not like fear, an enemy that birthed hatred and lust for power, that cultivated the worst kinds of violence in the hearts of men. No, death was not an enemy, but a truth, still to be greeted as an old friend. 

A friend at the end of a long and winding road. A road that had made the traveler tired. A traveler who did not despair in rest. A traveler who had ventured far and wide and was content to let the future travel on, sure that those he loved would travel well, and their path would be full of triumphs yes, but that the obstacles they met would be challenges that the new traveler could handle, for they were well equipped. And they were not alone. 

And that was what Dumbledore’s Army really was. A way to ensure they were well equipped, these children who had been left open to the insidious ways of fear. Harry was showing them that love, love can be the light that illuminates their way. That lets their path linger long in the winding forest of life. 

And it was with these thoughts that he dismounted and met Draco, who had set down his tea on the stoop and hurried forward, meeting him in the snow covered meadow. 

“Harry.” Draco panted, and he looked bemused. “What happened? What did you do?” 

“What do you mean? I’ve just come from our first DA meeting. It was amazing, Draco… I have to tell you everything. Little Thor! You won’t believe what he managed…Oh, and Winston. Draco. He’s you, in miniature!”

And Draco raised his hand and cut him off. “No, Harry. Your skin. What did you do to it?” 

Harry stopped, looking down. “My what?” 

Draco grabbed his hands and pushed back his cloak from his shoulders, the chill inapparent on his skin. Draco was running his hands along his arms and pulling the neck of his t-shirt down to see his chest. 

And Harry saw what Draco had meant. All across his body, shimmering into existence, then fading away, were minuscule golden threads. Designs, pouring over his skin in rippling waves, stark against the dark of his skin, brilliant in the night.

Harry had seen them before, the same arching and swirling patterns. The same flickering golden lines, intricate and delicate and full of magic in their own right. It was the same designs that coated the thestrals carved into the front door of Grimmauld Place. Thestral magic. Death herder magic. 

And Harry knew that he had been right. He had found his place. Where he needed to be. 


	21. Fidelius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Multiple mentions of miscarriage and homophobia. 
> 
> Translation for the Latin incantation (don't put it through google translate, it won't translate it properly): Fidelius. Fielty, safety, family, we keep our home in our hearts. I put my trust in your soul, to keep me safe. To share them with those we love. Fidelius.

November 13, 2009

“Are you sure you’re comfortable with this, I could always apparate back this evening after our dinner—”

“Draco, I told you about 50 times I got an O in my potions NEWT, and your mystical thestral potion,” Juniper waved jazz hands from across the room, rolling her eyes at Draco’s pestering insistence, “is nothing I can’t handle.” 

“Yes, I know, but this isn’t a simple blood replenishing potion we’re talking about, this— this requires precise timing when you add the _usnea_ — and the pearl dust has to be stirred—”

“A quarter turn left and a thrice turn right until it comes up to 118 degrees celsius and the vapours are moss coloured.” She rattled off flippantly, finishing his sentence. Her fingers dancing determinedly across the labels of many jars with chipped canary yellow polish, taking no note of Draco’s clear distress of allowing someone else to help him. “Am I missing something?” She asked rhetorically, finally finding the flux-weed she needed and turning back to him. 

He grunted his response, trying not to smile at the look of profound exasperation in her hazel eyes. She almost reminded him of himself. Almost. “Very well, I just—” 

“Have crippling control issues?” She smiled, turning towards the brewing bench and filling an empty cauldron with whispered _aguamenti_. 

In the two weeks, since he had been attacked in his office, and in the days he had spent trying to organize his life, Juniper had come as a surprising, and altogether incredible, help to him. He liked her instantly, but kept that to himself, feebly attempting to maintain some semblance of detached professionalism. 

The potions room had been put back together immaculately with Juniper’s help and reordered in a way that made sense for both of them to work there. He had decided, with Hestia’s encouragement, and Harry’s excited cajoling, to hire her on as his much-needed assistant and receptionist. 

When he offered her the job, she had been blindsided. She initially refused, telling him her whole history, it spilling from her in a panicked apology, awkward and unsure. It was full of hesitations. Reluctances. Mistrust, especially of herself. She didn’t know if she could or should work around potions this early in her recovery. 

Draco looked to Harry and Hestia for advice, wondering if he had been too bold with Juniper. Though, after a few meetings at Grimmauld and some dedicated sessions with Hestia, she had come back to him and said that she was ready. Ready to make a life for herself, ready for this step in her recovery. Ready to not let her past dictate her future, to give up her passion for a fear of herself.

After just a week of seeing how utterly adept she was with his patients and brilliant with the potions, he offered her the flat upstairs, for which she and Hestia leapt with joy. She had only been up there for two days, and it had made her even more austere in the workplace. The timing, as well, was fortuitous, for Juniper was getting to the point in her recovery where she needed to move away from the protective beginnings of living within Grimmauld Place, so that it’s temporary rooms may open up to others who needed a safe and cosseted home to begin those early days of recovery. 

“I have spent years getting to this point,” Draco pressed, watching her fluid movements carefully. Thick ropes of pinkish white scars stood out on her wrists as she carefully adjusted the heat and acidity of the potion base. “I think I’ve earned the right to be a bit… _particular_ about how things are done, have I not?” His ire wasn’t much in the face of Juniper’s no-nonsense disposition, her unassuming tenacity, her lack of fear at his Malfoy glower.

She had an intuitive understanding of potions and herbal theories. She followed Draco’s orders to the letter, and when he was being ridiculous and obsessive, she let him know. 

“Yes, and _particular_ you are.” She laughed to herself, measuring out the flux-weed. “You have three appointments on Wednesday,” she continued, ignoring Draco’s affronted squawk, “and you can micromanage your cauldrons this weekend while I’m at my meetings. But, tonight, go, I will be fine with the pearl dust, _and_ the _usnea_ , _and_ the flux-weed, _and_ the—”

“Okay, okay! Yes, you’re very capable. Fine, I’m leaving!” He threw his hands in the air, defeated. Bossed out of his own office in his own practice by a 17 year old slytherpuff in ragged jeans. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, he thought balefully to himself. 

Her triumphant snickers followed Draco from the room and into the hall. “Send an owl if you need me, don’t let anyone in outside of business hours unless you’ve invited them, and… and— Hestia and Neville said they’d stop by to deliver ingredients tonight, don’t forget—” he trailed off, running out of steam, worried about his potions, about Juniper on her own in the big empty house. 

“Yes, sir!” She called back, a smile in her voice, the bitter smell of flux-weed wafting out into the reception area.

“I’ll just grab the last of my things and be off then.” He muttered to himself, still unwilling to just _leave._  

“You do that!” She called back cheekily. Rolling his eyes, he jogged lightly up the creaky steps to the little brown attic he had briefly occupied with Harry. 

Looking around at the top of the steps, he saw it in an entirely different light. Now that he was no longer staying here, he felt almost fond of it. Almost. His large king size mattress was no longer in the corner, but rather a small, full-sized bed with a delicate floral pattern quilt and soft purple pillows. There was a small bookshelf acting as a bedside table filled with vampire romance novels and a few dogeared copies of _Potions Weekly_. He was leaving his little desk behind for Juniper, as well as a few pads of post-it notes. 

The whole space was dotted with signs of youth, and it looked more loved and lived in after two short days with her than it ever did after weeks with Harry and Draco leaving their socks on the floor. 

Hanging plant baskets, furry throw rugs, a beaded hanging in the doorway to the bathroom, a poster of The Weird Sisters behind a lumpy brown sofa her and Hestia had found at a second hand shop, and a grey cat sleeping softly under the battered coffee table. The cat and the coffee table had been found together in a dumpster, and no one had the heart to tell Juniper she couldn’t have both. 

Down at his feet were two boxes. His and Harry’s entire existence parcelled down to just two dilapidated cardboard boxes held together with spell-o tape and hope. Some incomprehensible feeling of shock and suddenness hit Draco very completely, staring down at the two boxes on the floor. Standing here in this flat where he had agonized, where Harry had come back to him, where they had been chased out by the ministry, where so much had transpired in such a short space of time. 

He felt oddly weepy, weirdly relieved, and yet, somehow still ached with a bizarre sense of fondness for this horribly drafty and splinter filled attic. It was the perfect place for a young adult to start their journey, not for two blotchy old wizards like he and Harry. No, they had never belonged here. The protective magic woven here by so many sang with lightness. It was ready to hold Juniper through this part of her life.

Lifting the two boxes, he said a silent farewell to the loud pipes and rattling windows and walked back downstairs. 

______________

 

Harry had thrown himself on to Draco’s mattress, groaning in delight, as soon as it had been unshrunk and placed against the wall in the cottage. 

“I love this bed _so much_.” Harry muttered into it. Draco snorted a laugh, he couldn’t agree more. Harry had done a fine job with their transfigured bed, but nothing could compare to the magic that was his firm mattress. 

Draco shook the sheets at Harry to make him move and he moaned pitifully and rolled off the bed and onto the floor. “Honestly.” Draco laughed as he made their bed with the soft cotton sheets and plush pillows, Harry grunting his impatience from the floor all the while. 

Reverently, he pulled his duvet out of the crumpled cardboard box and shook it out as Harry crept back onto the half-made bed from the floor. After fitting it with a new duvet cover, a dark burgundy, he threw it onto their bed, covering Harry completely. 

“Come, we’re going to be late for Hermione.” He chided Harry, shaking his leg under the thick blanket, earning him another groan, this one of disappointment rather than delight. Harry sat up, pulling the blanket from his face and torso and looked at Draco for a moment with curious eyes. 

Harry made a funny movement as if to reach for him but stopped himself and looked away. Suddenly awkward. There had been many moments like this since Sylvia had died, and Draco didn’t know how to reassure Harry. How to scrub away the guilt. How to bridge the gap. 

“ _Oi_.” Draco said finally, sternly, after days of watching Harry torment himself. Keep himself away. The sudden fierceness of it startled Harry, who took a deep breath before looking back. Like he was bracing himself. “It’s okay.” Draco announced loudly, firmly.

Harry looked at him, guilt still shadowing his green eyes. His shoulders hunched, looking like he wanted to argue that no, it wasn’t okay. Would never be okay.

Draco sat on the bed and reached for Harry who tried to disentangle himself from the dark duvet saying, “you’re right, we’re going to be late.” A little too loudly.

“Harry.” Draco said with authority, and Harry stilled, looking caught out. Draco grabbed his shoulder and pulled him around to face him. Harry took another deep breath and nodded, his magic felt careful, controlled, wary. Harry had held himself at arms length for days now. 

“We’re not running anymore, remember?” Draco said softly, taking his hand, and Harry huffed an incredulous laugh, still not looking at Draco. “I get it.” He pressed on. “I get it, okay? Stop running from this. From me.”

He pulled Harry’s reluctant hand towards him and kissed the dry knuckles. Heard Harry’s rough, nearly pained exhale. Saw him nod absently at the mattress. “Now, will you fucking kiss me properly so we’re not late for dinner?”

Harry smiled hesitantly, looking down at their entwined hands, his magic becoming softer, still wary, but less stiff. Swirling around them. After a long beat, he finally looked up into Draco’s face and reached out to pull him in. The kiss was chaste and short. Nothing more than a brief press of closed lips. A shared breath. It was charged with a hundred things they couldn’t voice. Couldn’t explain. The apologies and forgiveness, the understanding and helplessness of it all. 

They were okay. 

They weren’t running, and they were going to be okay. 

___________

 

Somehow, least qualified though he was, Draco ended up with a lap full of babbling and drooling Rose at the Granger-Weasley dinner table. Harry found this terribly amusing and kept smirking while he chopped potatoes. Ron was wearing his pink floral apron over his navy Weasley jumper, wielding a wooden spatula with great determination at the hob, the smell of garlic thick in the air. Hermione was concentrating hard on cutting up florets of broccoli into identical pieces with almost concerning determination. And Percy, the unexpected guest of the evening, was giving them all a lecture on outdated ministry policies as he cracked eggs into a large mixing bowl. 

Draco had been surprised to find that Percy was joining them for dinner. He had thought him an odd addition to the group. As they hadn’t seen much of Ron and Hermione since early September, he and Harry had been very keen to spend time with them when the invitation was extended. They just hadn’t anticipated Percy’s slightly pompous declarations to be sprinkled through the proceedings. 

He was just beginning to wonder why on earth Percy was talking _at_ them, when he ostentatiously brought up the department that had so recently funded much of Draco’s life, that had catalysed so many of his discoveries, changed so much of who he is, at his core. Draco stopped trying to ignore him while making faces at the giggling child in his lap, turning a furrowed brow to listen more closely. 

“…Which brings us to your situation with the DoM.” He said sternly, but with decidedly dramatic flair. “The DoM became its own branch of the Ministry in 1542. The minister at that time gave it unprecedented centralised, autonomous control over itself, for the protection of our magical knowledge. So that the secrets of our inherent magical power could be protected. This move was created out of fear of muggles, at a time when we considered them most dangerous. A deeply ingrained, generational bias that has followed many pureblood families to this day, as we know.” He gesticulated, nodding to Draco, who clearly would know the prejudices of pureblood society as intimately as any.  Draco nodded back.

“They were entrusted to research areas of magic that wizarding society revered, feared, and felt too taboo to discuss in polite company, or were afraid of letting out into non-magic families, to muggle-borns or half-bloods. Owing to the wizarding population’s proclivity for superstition, no one questioned how the department was run, or what they got up to for _centuries_ . Literally, _centuries_.” He enunciated firmly, pointing an egg covered fork at Harry. “We knew dismantling that wasn’t going to be easy work.” 

“Will it even be possible?” Harry scoffed, scooping the cubed potatoes into a bowl and standing to pass them to Ron, who was smiling in an odd manner. Draco couldn’t figure out why Ron looked so pleased. “The ministry is dinosaurian and the bureaucratic cogs move far too slowly.” Harry continued grumpily standing against the counter next to Ron with his arms folded. Draco noticed Hermione, too, was smiling into her pile of perfectly dissected broccoli. He narrowed his eyes at Percy. 

“Well, yes. It was the largest undertakings of our careers, I have to say.” Percy responded with a triumphant gleam in his eyes, smiling at Ron and Hermione, who grinned back. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Draco asked, readjusting Rose on his lap so she could point her wooden spoon sternly at her mother. 

“The story hits the papers tomorrow.” Hermione said, her voice dancing between righteous victory and malevolent cunning as she handed Ron the broccoli, reaching to take the eggs from Percy. 

“What story?” Harry asked, looking to Draco, making sure he wasn’t the only one who was feeling left out. Draco just shrugged his confusion back, Rose continuing to cast nonsensical spells at her parents, completely oblivious to the conversation. 

“After Draco was attacked and Grimmauld Place searched, Ron and I went to Percy and Kingsley to explain the entire situation. Our suspicions about the department and our concerns for your safety.” She said, nearly vibrating with great intensity, the air of someone made to keep a secret for too long. “We realized that when the Ministry was restructured after the second war, the DoM had been left out of the proceedings entirely, slipped right under the radar. They have no system of checks and balances. A law unto their own. No regulatory functions, no reporting system, _nothing._ They hadn’t been audited in _three hundred years. YEARS._ ” She shouted, a manic glint in her eye. 

“They were completely at liberty to issue search and arrest warrants without Wizengamot approval,” Percy grunted angrily, “hold people in questioning indefinitely, so long as it pertained to an area of research.” 

“And, most shockingly, they were able to keep their research in private archives. Shelves upon shelves of deep magical history and research, hidden from view!” Hermione finished, breathing hard, her hair looking electric with indignation. 

“But, you worked there for years, Hermione, how did you not know any of this before?” Harry asked, looking even more boggled. 

“Well, you know, Unspeakables under a certain clearance rank aren’t allowed in certain areas or access to certain information, it’s something you earn over time. And, obviously, I hadn’t been promoted to that level yet. Never realized how deep the secrets went. After the three of us with Kingsley carefully combed through all the bylaws pertaining to the DoM, we managed to find a few loopholes that allowed us to audit and investigate the department. We found some compelling evidence to present to the Wizengamot, and we were able to pass some bills that granted us access to, well- _everything_.” Her eyes were big and distant, as if she were remembering something she didn’t want to. 

“What we found… it was shocking. I’ll spare you the details—”

“Oh, no you won’t!” Harry said loudly. “What did you find?! Draco was nearly dragged off there!”

“No, Harry, trust me, you don’t—” She said seriously. Rose quietly watched her mother, no longer waving the spoon. “There were people being kept down there. Muggles. Wizards. Squibs. Children, even. The experiments we found—”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were doing all this?” Harry cut in, sounding more than slightly resentful. “I could have helped— I should have—”

“Mate.” Ron said interrupting Harry’s self-flagellation. He swung an arm around his shoulder like a brother, pulling him to his side. 

“You had enough going on. _And_ ,” He said at the irritated noise Harry made, “I don’t mean that in a ‘we don’t think you can handle this’ sort of way.” He shook Harry a bit with his large, freckled arm. “I mean it in a ‘your boyfriend was nearly kidnapped at wand point and you were forced into hiding and we thought we could get on without stressing you out further’ sort of way. Yeah? We’re very capable, you know.”

Harry seemed to grudgingly accept that answer but still looked petulant about it. “You could have told me.” He muttered. 

“Yeah, we could have.” Hermione said simply. “But we didn’t. Sometimes we have to fight different battles, Harry. One person can’t… shouldn’t do everything.”

Harry nodded at her while Ron turned back to the counter to assemble their frittata. 

Draco was dying to ask about the secret archives but didn’t want to interrupt Harry’s moment with his two friends. An entire conversation was contained in their silence, subtle movements and gestures, looks and nods. Percy saved him the trouble of reminding the trio that other people existed, too. 

“Tell him about the upcoming trial, Ron.” He insisted, rubbing his hands together like a supervillain. A supervillain who used law and incessantly tedious bureaucracy to his alarmingly well-intentioned advantage. A hero? 

Right. A hero. 

“Oh, the sweet satisfaction of a conviction— our evidence we’ve collected is so strong they won’t have an option but to hold them accountable. I can’t wait to testify.” Ron intoned wistfully, placing the frittata in the oven with a violently orange hot mitt. 

“Get on with it, then!” Harry said loudly, the suspense of the story clearly eating him up. Draco quite agreed, but he felt immobilized by the chubby child occupying his limbs. 

And, get on with it, Ron did. It took him an hour to tell them the whole harrowing tale. How Hermione acted as a whistleblower in the department. How Kingsly and Percy motivated the Wizengamot to confront generations worth of deeply ingrained superstitions in the name of protecting their society, least of all their Golden Boy. In the name of accountability and transparency. Of free knowledge and open discourse. How they had one by one agreed to allow the aurors and the DMLE to investigate the department, for the legal offices to run an internal audit, for every employee of the DoM to be questioned and investigated. 

Turns out, the DoM had an unbelievable budget and the only records of spending were for employees. Not only did they have hidden libraries and archives deep below the ministry, but they had laboratories, many of them, fantastic in their size, terrifying in their scope. They had prison cells, too. There were people down there. Lost to the bowels of the department. Never given due process. Never heard from again. 

Most troubling of all were the upper-level Unspeakables, so unlike Hermione and her fellow academics. The Unknowables that Luna had mentioned. Turns out they were real. Real, and dangerous. With burnt identities and histories, living in the deep levels of the DoM like monastic monks, worshipping the mysteries of power and the powers of mystery. This secret community working tirelessly to unravel and harness the obscurities of magic while the wider wizarding world carried on, blissfully unaware of what lurked beneath them. 

Hermione seemed personally offended that the DoM’s mysteries ran so deeply and so sinisterly. “I was a part of that work.” She said, angrily. “I added my hard-earned knowledge to their secret vaults of information that they were using to cultivate power. To abuse people. What they were doing down there was just…” She trailed off, setting plates down around the table with too much force. 

“So, if these people don’t have names or identities, how can you put them to trial?” Draco asked, finally passing Rose off to her mother. He felt oddly empty without the perpetual motion machine in his lap. He didn’t know what to do with his hands so he fiddled with the cloth serviette. 

“Well, essentially,” Percy said, in his courtroom voice, “since all of the Unknowables plausibly knew about the prisoners and highly illegal experiments happening, they’re all being tried on a variety of human rights abuse charges and international violations. They’ve violated hundreds of local and international laws about experimental charms, dark magic, human transfiguration, experimental curse damage… so much. They were doing _so much_.” 

“And the archives?” Draco asked, eagerly. 

Hermione smiled wolfishly. “I’m heading the team to catalogue everything and send it up to the Ministry’s library and research publication centre. All of it, centuries worth of knowledge, will be made public. Eventually.”

“When?” Draco asked. 

“As we go through it. It’ll take years, but it'll be worth it. The DoM has been sitting on some incredible magical breakthroughs— wait till you see— the amount of—” Hermione’s was bursting with excitement. Her entire career leading up to this grand moment of breaking open the DoM and sharing its coveted secrets with the world. “Transparency and knowledge is so important! Accountability! Peer review! Ethics committees!” She smacked her hands on the table surface with fervent enthusiasm and Ron smiled indulgently at her. 

“What about our research?” He pressed. “What about all of the work we did and had to burn? All that _time._ ” He nearly pleaded. 

Hermione sighed heavily looking sadly at Draco. “I did what I thought was best in the moment to keep you and Harry safe. If I had known where this would lead, I would have tried to save it or hide it… or _something._ But, well...” She shrugged apologetically. “Most of the theoretical branches of magical research is going to be sent to live at Hogwarts in the library. All of the information about Death Herders, about thestrals, some other interesting areas that could benefit the school and be significantly advanced by learned academics and magical theorists, it’ll all be moved there. Hogwarts will keep it safe. Flitwick has set up a preliminary research ethics committee.”

Draco nodded. Still feeling more than a little nettled that after all that, their research had been reduced to a pile of ash and vanished into nothingness.

“Maybe,” Hermione said carefully, “maybe, in a few years, when you have a better understanding of your role and your thestrals, maybe we can revisit the research. Re-publish. Add to the store of knowledge at St. Mungo’s and the Hogwarts library. Yeah?” She looked eager and hopeful. The regret of destroying their research evident on her face. 

“Yeah.” He breathed out. “Maybe.” He had saved one of those early drafts. His preliminary notes. In the cabin. Stuffed in the hidden stone cubby with Quintessence. Most of it was angry ramblings about unicorns, but that wasn’t all too unheard of in magical research. The literature was teeming with failed first attempts. Bitterness. He’d fit right in. Yes, that could work— 

“You said there were people trapped down there.” Harry interjected, interrupting Draco’s musings. Plots. Rekindled animosity for the silver, singled horned cretins. “Who? Who did you find? Were they okay?” 

Ron sighed sadly. “We found about a dozen people down there. One young as maybe six, oldest at about, we guess, late 70’s. All of them had their memory wiped. They don’t know a thing. No idea why they were there or what happened to them.”

“We found the identities of at least four of them,” said Percy, “after searching through missing persons around Europe, but the other’s we have no idea who they are or where they come from. They’ll be staying in St. Mungo’s until the ministry has any idea what to do for them.”

“Mm.” Harry said, brow furrowed. 

“And the people you arrested?” Draco asked as Ron placed the steaming pan of Frittata down at the centre of the table. “No idea who they are either?” 

“It’s the weirdest thing.” Ron said, fanning steam away from the cooling mass of egg. “When we started digging, we found identities for about eight of the 22 people who had been living down there. And, so far, all of them had been regular Unspeakables at some point. Four of them had been legally dead. Funerals and everything, obituaries in the paper. One had supposedly retired and moved off to Spain, and the others just went missing. And here they are, living in the bowels of the ministry. We closed a record number of cold cases.”

They were all silent for a moment, each lost in their own contemplation. Food being ladled out and plates passed around. 

“So, what?” Harry asked, voice disbelieving. “It’s just over now?” He stabbed into his piece of frittata aggressively.

Ron and Percy both scoffed. 

“For you, maybe.” Hermione huffed a humourless laugh. “I think you should still keep low and out of sight for a while. But, for us, no, it’s nowhere near over. We’re finding more and more levels, rooms, and secret passageways every week. Who knows if there are more people still down there, honestly. It could take us another decade to sweep the entirety of the DoM. Kingsley put a dedicated Auror guard on the three of us indefinitely, and we’ve had to reinforce our home wards—  I had to move my office from the DoM for the time being— We don’t know how long we’ll be fighting this battle. Righting the wrongs.” She shrugged, kissing the top of Rose’s head, looking for the moment, worried. 

Harry looked as conflicted as Draco felt. Draco knew Hermione and Ron were gifted and powerful magical people. Knew that they had been more than just Harry’s lackeys in the war against Voldemort. But, to hear that they had taken down the cultish underbelly of the Ministry while Draco had sat quietly in his forest hollow, knitting baby socks, made him feel oddly inept in the face of their tenacity and bravery. 

Harry’s furrowed brow and thin mouth echoed this sentiment. 

“I may not be as under-the-radar as I had originally planned.” 

Hermione groaned. “Oh no, what did you do?”

Harry grinned sheepishly back at her, Draco saw Ron had frozen with a fork-full of egg balancing precariously halfway to his mouth, eyes wide at Harry, worried. Percy clicking his tongue in disapproval. 

“I, uh, I may have been recruited to um- restart Dumbledore’s Army. At the insistence of Minnie.” He said, looking far too pleased with himself, unable to stop the smile from splitting his face as Ron open and closed his mouth repeatedly, no sound coming out. Harry took the moment of shocked silence to busy himself with shovelling frittata and bean salad into his face. Draco couldn’t help but smile at him and the looks of disbelieving befuddlement on Ron and Hermione’s face. Percy just looked curiously puzzled by it all. 

“And, I may have also been offered the Defense Against the Dark Arts position for next year as Doge is well past his teaching expiration date.” He said quickly, blushing, actively avoiding Draco’s gaze. 

“You kept that quiet.” Draco said with raised eyebrows. 

“Yeah…” Harry pushed out, awkwardly, yet looking relieved. “Sorry, I meant to mention it… I just— didn’t know if I was going to take it. But, then— then I thought of Orelia and how she had cast her first _protego_ , wordlessly, I might add, deflecting a jelly legs jinx from Freya—”

Ron finally dropped his fork and rubbed his hands over his face and laughed. Hermione looked up to the ceiling, shrugging helplessly at it all, muttering under her breath, “All this time, trying to keep you safe— does he ever listen? Of course not— off he goes—”

Draco was shaking his head fondly at Harry, unable to hide the glowing adoration he felt for him in his moments of joy at the thought of his DA students. 

Hermione finally drew her eyes back from the ceiling and onto Harry, also shaking her head fondly, Ron still laughing into his food. Harry was sitting, a little awkwardly, clearly waiting for the approval and validation of his friends. Wanting to hear that he had made the right choice. “I told McGonagall that I would take the job.” He finally said, watching them carefully, eyes resting on Draco. 

“Well,” Hermione said, smiling at him in an indulgent sort of way, like she didn’t know what she should have expected from her Harry, “there’s no safer place than Hogwarts.” She intoned in a sing-song voice. 

They all laughed. 

Draco reached over and squeezed Harry’s leg under the table, earning him a relieved grin and Harry’s firm hand over his, squeezing back. 

“So, how are the students?” Ron asked, interestedly. “Do you have a horde of mini Gryffindor’s filling your ranks?”

Harry laughed. “No, actually.” He looked so very wistful and pleased, thinking about his DA kids. “There’s only one Gryffindor. Two from each other house. Seven in total.”

“Really?” Hermione asked, her ire forgotten, genuine curiosity taking its place. 

“Yeah, McGonagall handpicked a few students that needed the DA most, kids that either didn’t get along or those that were bullied by the rest of their classmates. Outcasts. Abandoned kids. There’s this one; Thor- his name is. You wouldn’t believe—” Harry chuckled to himself. “Thorfin Rowle’s son— You remember? The big Death Eater bloke?”

The others nodded, eyes questioning, Draco knowing the story well by now. “His son,” Harry continued, enthusiasm pouring from every bit of his being, “is this small, skinny boy— Slytherin— but, Teddy Lupin’s best friend, if you can believe that. He grew up in a muggle orphanage after his father died, and his mum. And no one would take him in. Thick coke bottle glasses, an inhaler spell-o taped to his school bag— McGonagall says he’s got a dedicated house elf because he’s “medically complex” and gives Madam Pomfrey grey hairs, worse than we used to. Teddy and he adore each other, it’s the purest thing I’ve ever seen. When he cast his first _lumos_ with his lisp and his wheezing I nearly cried for him. He somehow reminds me of the best and most awkward parts of Neville, Draco, Snape and Lupin all rolled into one adorable disaster. The kid deserves so much love and he gets picked on mercilessly—”

Harry had realized he was rambling, Draco saw, when he looked up and caught the indulgent smiles they were all bestowing on him. Draco looked around and saw that Percy was oddly misty eyed as he had watched Harry exuberantly download about these children he had become so attached to. 

“You okay, Perce?” Ron asked, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder. Percy smiled a bit sadly and shook himself, nodding. 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. It’s just— well, hearing about this. All these kids. Penelope and I, you know, I mean— we’ve been trying for years. Thinking about adopting. It’s nothing, really.” He waved them off, clearing not wanting the conversation to fall onto him and his longings. 

“There are many ways to make a family.” Hermione said quietly, kindly. “And, there are so many children in need of homes after the war.”

Percy nodded. “Yes,” he said smiling at his empty plate, the words left him seemingly of their own accord, and Draco wondered if Percy had anyone to talk to about these things that clearly weighed heavy on his shoulders, “and after four miscarriages, I don’t think we could cope with the disappointment of trying anymore. We have the whole of St. Mungo’s flummoxed, I tell you.”

Draco was listening with such rapt attention that he almost missed the sad smile Hermione and Ron exchanged with one another. The unspoken sorrow that passed between them as they both made to touch some part of their child as she mindlessly gnawed on a mushy stalk of eggy broccoli. 

“She was recently screened for generational curses by Healer McDougal, and blood curses by Healer Sprigg. They found nothing. They can’t figure it out. She was crushed. We both were.” Percy continued, and Draco bristled harshly at the mention of Sprigg. Although he hadn’t had to see the man’s smug face in months, he still dealt with countless patients walking into his practice in need of care that Sprigg couldn’t provide. 

“Percy— I don’t mean to be presumptuous, or to speak ill of another healer, but I worked with Sprigg for years, and I spent most of that time cleaning up his mess. If you’d like a second opinion on the possibility of curse damage, you’re more than welcome to bring Penelope to my practice in Hogsmeade.” Draco said, evenly, his healer mask sliding quickly into place. His mind whirring with a hundred possibilities. 

Percy offered another sad, almost pitying smile in return. “Draco, I appreciate the offer immensely, I do, and I will speak with Penelope about it, but—” He looked a bit awkward, trying to decide what to say next. “but, it might be a challenge to convince her to seek help from the nephew of someone who had tortured her during the war.”

Draco felt ice run through his veins and he suddenly felt lost at sea, “I’m— I’m so very sorry, Percy—” He said, quickly, but Percy cut him off with a wave of his hand. 

“I certainly don’t blame you, Draco, for what Bellatrix did, and I know Penelope wouldn’t either, but the reminder may be a bit much for her at this point, surrounded by disappointment as she has been.” His voice had become stronger and slightly pompous again, clearly looking to end the discussion. “In any event, I will convey your offer, just in case.” 

Draco nodded, feeling all at once antsy and frozen in place, his mind remembered words long forgotten to the deep recesses of his mind, Bellatrix’s voice echoing from the depths. Lost memories swimming hazily to the surface. 

He was grateful when he felt Harry’s grounding hand on his leg and heard him clear his throat to cut in and continue his ramblings about how excited he was to teach. How endearing Thor was. How pleased he was to have the opportunity to bridge the gap between the houses. How much he wanted to draw the Slytherins out of isolation. How friendship is so essential for survival, for moving forward, for thriving. How he wants to cultivate that sentiment in the next generation. 

He let Harry’s words wash over him and let his mind wander to his thestrals. To their cave. To blood curses and the healing arts. How they each were finding their place. 

_______

 

November 14, 2009

The next morning Little Dipper came swooping in the window with a letter from Hermione and a copy of _the Daily Prophet._ He crashed spectacularly into the tray of waffles, knocking over Harry’s tea and taking advantage of the general chaos to snap a piece of bacon. 

“You little menace!” Draco squawked. “Harry! Your owl is a terror!” 

Harry just laughed and waved his hand to clean up the mess. The spell did little to remove the maple syrup from Draco’s pants, so he stormed off to the chest of drawers to change while Harry cooed at his nuisance of a bird. 

As Draco stripped down and redressed, Harry read Draco the breaking story of the ministry’s internal restructuring and the ominous things uncovered in the DoM. The story spanned five pages and went into a detailed and extremely tedious account of the bureaucratic processes involved in such a feat. Hermione and Ron were mentioned several times and exalted to the moon and back. There was talk of how this put Ron on a fast track to be Head Auror one day. How Hermione could be Minister for Magic in a decade’s time if she continued in this vein. How Percy was one of the most well respected Chief Warlocks in recent history. How Kingsley’s fervor for accountability and transparency in Ministry proceedings was unprecedented. 

They ended up on their bed as Harry was finishing the final lines of the article and flipped the page to follow the final sentence. He trailed off, his brow furrowed, the fingers that had been mindlessly carding Draco’s hair as he lay next to Harry had stilled. 

Draco sat up, “What is it?” 

“That fucking— _mhm_.” Harry growled. His fists gripping the thin paper, his magic radiating out in an angry wave. 

“What?” Draco made to reach for the paper, but Harry pulled it away, looking at Draco with concern. “Harry, what is it?”

Harry sighed, and rubbed his eyes. Looking like he was having an internal debate about something. Seeming to decide something, his shoulders drooped, defeated, and he handed the paper to Draco. 

He snatched it out of Harry’s reluctant hands and scanned the page for the offending words. It didn’t take long to find. 

 

_Daily Prophet Special Correspondent Romilda Vayne’s Weekly Harry Potter Gossip Column._

_Here for all of your up to the minute stories about your favourite Golden Hero._

_This week’s story was sent in from an anonymous letter, disclosing to your very own Romilda Vayne that our Savior has been spotted spending quality time in Hogsmeade. The anonymous writer swears on their grandmother’s life that they witnessed one Harry James Potter strolling down the street holding hands with non-other than social pariah, acquitted Death Eater, and disgraced Healer, Draco Lucious Malfoy._

_Well, I can tell you, my dear readers, for absolute certain that there is no way on earth that the decade’s most eligible bachelor could possibly be a homosexual, for one. For another, it's inconceivable that our hero, who vanquished the Dark Lord, would ever be caught dead cavorting with such unsavoury characters! The scandal! The outrage!_

_If this sighting is genuine, I’m sure my readers would want to know what the Ministry is doing to protect Harry from whatever dark magic Mr. Malfoy is using to besmirch the reputation of our hero. While it is known that Mr. Potter is adept at throwing off the imperious curse, there’s no question that while Draco lived under the tutelage of He-who-must-not-be-named and countless other Death Eaters, he may have learned dark magic to lure Harry to him. A love potion perhaps? Something worse than the imperious? Who knows what sinister skills he has tucked up his sleeve!_

_What this journalist wants to know is why Mr. Malfoy was fired from St. Mungo’s? Why was his healing license not revoked? What dastardly deeds did he subject patients to during_ —

 

And on, and on it went. Dragging Draco and his hard-earned, quiet, reputation through the mud. 

He could hear Harry speaking to him, but couldn’t hear what he was saying. Draco gently folded the paper in his lap. He got up from the bed, crossed the room, and tossed it carelessly into the fire. He watched the pages ignite, curl in on themselves, and blacken in the flames. The hateful words turning to ash. 

His boggart wrestling for dominance in his thoughts. Trying hard not to entertain the self-deprecating thoughts that were swirling around him, he took a deep breath, gathered himself, and turned to look at Harry. 

Harry looked worried when their eyes met. He sat, childlike on their bed, hunched over himself, picking mindlessly at a frayed hole in his jeans, chewing on his lip, eyeing Draco warily. Looking as if he were waiting for the shoe to drop. Waiting for Draco to say that this was the line, and he was leaving. 

His head full of all of the ways _The Daily Prophet_ said Harry couldn’t want him, Draco walked purposefully towards him. He stopped at the bedside and reached out a hand to tuck a loose curl behind Harry’s ear. _The Prophet_ and everyone else in the wizarding world may think Draco was a poor partner for Harry, and maybe he was, but there was no denying the pull between them. No denying the concerned look on Harry’s face, the fear that Draco may leave him, and the overwhelming urge Draco had to sooth that worry.

All those nameless people out there couldn’t take this away from them. No, Draco and Harry had worked too hard to get here. And, he wouldn’t let a few shitty words and half-assed speculations ruin the tender thing they had cultivated over months of tending. 

Draco moved on to the bed, climbed over him in the process. It forced Harry onto his back, scrabbling for purchase, trying to drag himself up to the pillows to get out from under Draco, but having nowhere to go. Looking ever more worried and confused. 

He looked at Harry for a hard moment, determined, his wide green eyes looking uncertain. He had continued to keep Draco at a distance, even after having been called out on it. Even after Draco had tried to clear the air between them. He was done with it. He wanted to wash all the guilt and hesitancy away from Harry. Show that he wasn’t afraid of his demons. That he wanted him, still. That Draco was willing to keep doing the work necessary for them to be okay.  

“Do you want me to stop?” Draco asked evenly, hovering over him, his one knee between Harry’s legs, both his hands on either side of Harry’s head. Not touching him yet.

Harry made a pitiful groan in the back of his throat, his eyes darting away, his magic tingling across Draco’s skin, his breathing suddenly shaky. 

“I’ll stop if you want me to.” Draco said, reaching out to brush the hair off of Harry’s forehead. He was seemingly unable to stop himself from leaning into the light touch. He looked anguished. Tortured. Guilt ridden.

“I— I—“ Harry stuttered. “I— I don’t want to hurt you—” The confession sounded pained, pulled from him. He said it to a point somewhere on the ceiling rather than to Draco. 

“You won’t.” Draco said, with a confidence he normally didn’t feel. 

“But— I almost— I _did—_ ” Harry tried, looking so very hurt by his own nature. 

“I’m not afraid of you, Harry.” He interrupted. And Harry breathed out a disbelieving breath. 

“We don’t have to do anything.” He assured, running his hand lightly through Harry’s hair, watching the way Harry’s eyes closed and how he sucked in a breath at the touch. Draco had desperately missed this casual closeness, and said as much, in a rough voice. “Gods, Harry— I— I’ve missed you this week.” 

The last few days had felt like an eternity with Harry laying on the far side of the bed with his back to him, hours after he would normally come to sleep. Trying desperately to keep Draco safe by keeping himself away. “We can just lay here. I can just kiss you, and leave it at that.” Draco said quietly, patiently. Leaning down to brush his lips against Harry’s. “Do you want me to stop?”

Harry made another strangled sound, his eyes still closed, followed by a whispered _no._ Draco smiled against Harry’s mouth and kissed him gently at first. Carefully laying himself down between Harry’s legs and on his chest. Harry groaned at the contact and his hands came gingerly up to Draco’s ribs, barely there. Still so apprehensive. 

Draco gave an encouraging _mmph_ into Harry’s mouth and ran his hands through his unruly hair. He gripped it firmly, earning him a surprised and pleased sound.  He used his hold to control and deepen the kiss. Harry holding on to Draco more tightly now, his arms wrapping around him. His body finally relaxing, melting slowly into the bed under him. 

Draco put everything he had into holding and kissing Harry. Trying to make him see. Make him feel just _how much_ — how _completely—_ Draco felt all of these _feelings_ for him _._ All of these swirling, keening, consuming feelings of tenderness, of devotion, of warmth, of _love_.

He laid his weight down on Harry and rolling into the V of his hips, holding him close. They laid there, tangled together, hands moving slowly, sharing the open mouthed kisses Draco had craved all week. Pouring all of his adoration and love into each breath they shared. 

When they pulled apart, sometime later, Harry looked dazed and less apprehensive. Well kissed. Loved. They were both hard, but Draco paid no mind. There would be time later. So much time. He pressed chaste lips one last time to Harry’s slightly open and overwhelmed mouth and sat up smiling. He pulled Harry with him from the bed to the kitchen table where he made them tea and spoke gently about nothing in particular. 

The last of their heaviness evaporated, Harry’s magic reached out in light swirling tendrils once again. 

__________

 

“I’ve been thinking—” Draco said into the dark, into the curve of where Harry’s neck met his shoulder. Harry smelled like wood shavings and leather. Of the sage he had helped Draco grind into a powder early that afternoon. The first time in a week Harry had come to bed with him, at the same time, had allowed Draco to wrap himself around him, hold him close. 

They had spent the rest of the day together. Standing near, frequently touching. Draco guiding Harry’s hand to show him how to prepare the herbs for him, Harry chatting excitedly about perspective lesson plans, occasionally reaching out to push Draco’s hair behind his ear. Later in the evening, Harry had written letters with a furrowed brow and serious eyes, while Draco had written out theories, his mind full of ideas. Half remembered thoughts from the war. Of Bellatrix. Of safety and fielty. 

They had gone to bed early, quietly, but Draco couldn’t sleep. His mind swirling with a hundred thoughts, surrounded by the smell and feel of Harry. Disjointed worry from that morning’s _Prophet_ article calling forth his boggart. Draco pressed in closer to Harry’s back, the cold of the room threatening to invade their nest of blankets. The fire had burnt down to glowing embers long ago.

“Mm?” Harry grunted sleepily. “Whas’ happening?” he asked, turning lazily in Draco’s arms to face him, to burrow into his cotton-covered chest for warmth, his eyes sleepy and his mouth slack. Draco smiled and breathed in the familiar smell of Harry’s hair deeply and tightened his grip around him. Holding Harry to him.

“I’ve been thinking.” Draco repeated, still softly, not really sure how to articulate his whirring thoughts. 

“What’rya thinkin’ ’bout.” Came Harry’s muffled voice, on the verge of slipping off into sleep. His breathing deep and measured. His fingers idly tracing halting patterns along Draco’s spine, as if he were valiantly trying to stay awake but fighting a losing battle. 

“I think. I think we should— I want—” Draco let out a frustrated sigh, unsure how to continue. Harry stilled for a moment, letting Draco’s stuttering words rouse him from the grasp of sleep. He pulled his face away from Draco’s chest and propped himself on his elbow to look at him with bleary eyes and a furrowed brow.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, voice stronger now, more alert. 

“Nothing is _wrong_.” Draco said, fighting off the feeling of impatience welling in him. “I just— I have an idea— I want to say something— and I don’t know how to— the words are eluding me...” He sighed, his limbs feeling a bit limp and useless. 

Harry reached his hand up and rested it on the side of Draco’s neck, his thumb gently stroking his jaw line, waiting. 

Draco took a deep breath, his insides jittering, restless. “I think— I think we should perform the fidelius charm on the hollow. On the cottage.” He said, it sounded more like a question than a statement. “We can be the secret keepers, ourselves. But, I wanted to do it properly. Like it used to be done, in ritual. Invite our closest friends. Share the secret with them.” 

Once the words started flowing, they began spilling out of their own accord. “There’s an old ceremony that use to be performed. A pureblood ceremony—” 

He searched Harry’s face, waiting to see the twist of disgust there, the outright refusal to participate in outdated pureblood rituals. He continued, emboldened when none came. When Harry’s unreadable, albeit patient countenance didn’t waver. His thumb still moving slowly across Draco’s skin. 

“It fell out of fashion during the first wizarding war— the ceremony being reduced to a spell of necessity, rather than of cultivating a home or fielty… or family. I thought maybe— maybe we could do that. Together— since we’re— you know…” He finished a little breathlessly, trailing off, nervously. Watching for Harry’s reaction. 

“Since we’re what?” Harry asked in a near whisper, Draco unable to see what his eyes were asking in the dark. 

“Since we’re— we’re— since I—” He could feel a tremor radiating out from his midsection, through his limbs, out to the tips of his fingers and toes, gripping him in the overwhelming certainty of what he wanted to say, but was terrified to let out. 

He was sure Harry could feel his erratic pulse under his hand and Draco could feel its warmth on his neck, burning him, and the blazing heat from Harry’s gaze in the dark making him falter. The silence urging him to continue speaking. 

“Since I love you.” He whispered, holding perfectly still. 

“I’ve loved you for so long, Harry— I’ve been building up to loving you for— gods— _years_ — maybe. Even through all the animosity— you’ve been this bright light in my life that I couldn’t look away from. I’ve always been circling you, drawn to you.”

He took a deep breath, figuring he may as well do the thing properly. Harry seemed to be holding his breath. “We’ve been through so much together— so much— and you know me. Gods, do you know me, Harry. And I want us to have a chance and a place to grow together. See what comes next. I want our home to be protected. To be safe for us. Because I love you.” He said again. 

The sound that erupted from Harry could have been a choked sob, or a hysterical laugh, Draco wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter when he surged forward with tremendous speed and rolled on top of Draco, kissing him with a kind of fierce desperation that he hadn’t expected. 

“Is that a yes?” Draco asked when Harry pulled away slightly to look at him, his eyes restlessly looking over Draco’s face, breathing heavily. 

“Of course it’s a yes.” Harry huffed, leaning back down, smiling against his mouth. “You love me?” He asked, sounding a bit disbelieving. 

“Of course I love you.” Draco said smiling now, too, feeling a profound relief at being able to say it out loud after sitting on it for weeks. Months. Draco felt like he had spent half his life layering the ways in which he could love Harry. 

Harry kissed him again. They pushed and pulled at each other’s clothes. Harry’s trepidation of the last few days seeming to have finally been driven away in the face of Draco’s declaration. They were gripping each other hard, and Draco was pulling insistently at the hem of Harry’s shirt, urging it off. Harry sat up, straddling Draco and yanked his shirt off, tossing it carelessly at the floor. Pulling Draco up to roughly take his shirt off too. 

Draco rolled them so he was over Harry, and they impatiently discarded their pants. Draco ran his hands reverently along Harry’s thighs, up his sides. Kneeling between Harry’s legs, he took in the beautiful sight of the man he loved, shivering with need. Draco was breathing heavy and his heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest. Harry grabbed his hand and pulled Draco back down on top of him, moaning into his mouth, the feel of their cocks sliding against one another making them both tremble.  

They moved quickly and eagerly against one another in the onslaught of emotions and _need_. Harry was breathing hard into Draco’s mouth, against the side of his jaw, whispering encouragements. Draco, reached down and hooked his arm under Harry’s knee, spreading him wider. Grinding against him more urgently. 

It didn’t last long, frantic as it was. Harry came with a strangled gasp, his hands gripping Draco’s ass cheeks tightly, controlling his trusts against him. The slickness of Harry’s release tipped Draco over the edge and his hips faltered, his cock spurting between them, his teeth dragging along the tendon in Harry’s neck. 

They slowed their movements, catching their breath. Draco rolled off of Harry and pulled him close. They lay there, pressing sleepy, open and uncoordinated lips together. Harry barely managing to cast a wandless, wordless, cleaning charm before they both sank into a deep sleep. Safe in the folds of the heavy duvet strewn haphazardly across their skin. 

 

_________

 

Draco was walking down the dingy servant’s passage to the kitchens, briskly, his ears straining for the sound of anyone following him. Of Lestrange’s shuffling gait. Of Greyback’s stomping warpath. He’d barely eaten in days, too consumed with the horrors of the manor, the Dark Lord having taken to using meal time to feed his snake for all to watch. 

Draco thought he might never want to eat again, but knew if he didn’t he wouldn’t have the strength for his occlumency, and that would be a death sentence. So, eat he must. 

He was reaching the door to the kitchens when he heard raised voices. His mother. Bellatrix. They were arguing in furious whispers. Bellatrix sounding choked with tears. With rage fueled grief. 

“—it’s not right, Bella, it won’t bring them back. It won’t fix it.” His mother was saying in near pleading tones. “Stop this madness.”

“You don’t know what this is like!” She threw back, acid in her voice. “You have a son! You have a beautiful, strong son, Cissy! And, he’s making you proud by serving! I can’t— I’ll never— the Dark Lord deserves—” she choked. 

“Cursing those women, won’t change that.” Narcissa said in a voice that teetered between harsh reprimand and pity. 

“If I can’t have sons, then neither shall they! Filthy blood traitors and half bloods they are. What does it matter to you, anyways?!” she challenged, voice shrill, near hysterical. 

“It matters because you know what this curse does. You live the horror every time you conceive, how can you pass it on, knowingly?!” He heard a scuffle and ragged sob erupt from Bellatrix. Draco turned on his heels, fearing he had heard too much. He didn’t need to eat, he needed to get away.

 

Draco woke with a start, the fear from the dream— the memory— gripping him. He was cold, he wasn’t wearing any clothes and the blankets had been tangled around them in a haphazard pile. He was suddenly starving. Ravenous. Remember what it felt like to be so famished yet so incapable of eating. He crept over a softly snoring Harry, drooling peacefully on his pillow, and dressed quickly in the dark, cold cottage. 

He rekindled the fire and let the blast of heat penetrate his clothes as he stood too close, trying to shake the jittery feeling from his limbs and piece together what his dream had pulled from the depths of his memories. He boiled a kettle for tea and opened a packet of chocolate digestives and proceeded to silently eat the entire package. 

He needed to write to his mother. They had much to talk about. Much to resolve. Much to air out. He missed her, he realized. A feeling that had been buried by the resentment and animosity of what their relationship had devolved into. He was ready to try and see what it could grow into, how she could fit into his life. How she may be able to reconnect him to his heritage in a way that wasn’t rooted in bigotry and self importance. 

He needed to know about what he had overheard with Bellatrix. Needed to understand what curse they were talking about. Why she had never had any children. 

After penning a generally bland letter to his mother, and setting it aside for when Little Dipper returned from his hunt, he crept quietly back to bed and crawled under the blankets. His mind swirled for a long long time before sleep reclaimed him. 

 

______

 

The next morning Draco and Harry sat at their tiny kitchen table, legs pressed together, both soft and joyful, as they penned a letter to their seven dearest friends. To their chosen family. The people whose magic they wanted woven into their home, to hold them, and protect them. An invitation to their fidelius ceremony. A house warming party, of sorts. Officiating their relationship. Their roles as Death Herders. Their home in the forest. 

November 21 would be a moonless night. A waxing crescent hidden from view. The stars would be dazzling and their garden would glisten in the quiet snow. 

 

______

 

Sometime after lunch, Draco found himself by the fireside, sitting cross legged on the rug with a tiny set of double pointed needles and lace weight wool, knitting the most tediously small sock in the history of tedious knitting endeavours. He was determined to make a set of beautiful baby things for Luna. Committed. Maybe a little obsessed, sure. He could admit that to himself. 

Trudging along, he was counting itty bitty stitches and doing silent math for making cables in the round when Harry’s voice broke the silence. Draco jumped, nearly forgetting that Harry was in the room with him, consumed as he was with his project. 

“You know we don’t ever have to have anal sex, right?” 

Draco nearly choked on his tongue, accidentally pulling one of the needles out of the sock entirely, losing all of the stitches, “I’m sorry— who— what?! ” He stuttered, his voice more shrill than he would have liked, turning supercilious eyebrows onto Harry. The sock unravelling in his hands.

Harry was rubbing his palms hard over his face and through his hair like he was gearing up to have a really painfully awkward conversation, and Draco felt his face turn fire engine red. 

“I mean it.” Harry said sighing and coming to sit across from Draco on the rug. He took Draco’s mangled knitting from his hands and put it aside. “I know we’ve danced around this and talked a bit about topping or bottoming— as if its some kind of inevitability, or some kind of pinnacle of sexual expression or intimacy— but— it's not. We don’t have to ever do it.”

Draco could tell his face must have been twisted into some kind of disbelieving shock. His mouth was moving and he was shaking his head, but no sound came out. He had no idea where this was coming from or what Harry meant by it. 

“No, really—“ Harry continued, reaching out and taking Draco’s hand. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. There’s a lot of societal pressure— I mean— even in the _literature_ that we read…” Harry waggled his eyebrows at Draco, clearly thinking of _Herbert and Gable,_ and Draco snorted a reluctant laugh. “Well, I just don’t think its a necessary part of… of…” He was moving his hand in a circular motion by his face, casting about for the right words. 

Draco had a welling sense of inadequacy rising like bile in his throat as he watched Harry try to string his thoughts together. 

“I’m working on it, Harry.” He said quietly, feebly, trying to make up for his dithering. “I’m working on my trauma. We can—” he trailed off, not knowing how to end the thought but not wanting Harry to think they could never be a normal couple because of him and his endless baggage. 

“No, oh no! Draco— that’s not what I’m— Gods, no—“ Harry, interjected, wide, worried eyes. “Fuck, that’s not at all what I’m trying to say…” He dropped his head into his hand and rubbed his eyes harder still, gripping Draco with his other. When he looked up his eyes were a bit pained, but so eager. 

“Draco. This… this doesn’t have anything to do with that. Not really. I mean, yes, clearly your hang ups are because of _that_ , and yeah, you _should_ work on your trauma— but not for this.” He shook his head, speaking quickly. 

“Not so that we can have sex in _that_ way— you should work on it for _you_ —but, that’s not why I’m saying this. I’m saying this, because— because penetrative sex isn’t the only way to show love, Draco. It’s not some great accomplishment we have to reach to be close, or to prove anything. Do you see?” 

Draco was watching him closely, the sense of crippling inadequacy ebbing slightly, but not leaving him entirely. “So, you didn’t like it when we did— _that_?” Draco asked, feeling himself blush. 

Harry smiled sweetly, admiringly almost, at Draco’s shyness. “Fingering, Draco. It’s called fingering—” 

“Salazar, _save me_ —” Draco groaned and buried his face in his free hand. 

“And I never said that.” Harry continued, ignoring Draco’s embarrassment. “I loved it, actually— I mean, I really, really—” Harry had a distant, heated sort of look on his face that he had to shake himself from, “That’s not the point here!”

Draco shook his head, marvelling at how much Harry seemed to have enjoyed it. Something that generally filled Draco with dread. 

“Isn’t it?” Draco pressed. 

“No!” Harry said, sounding exasperated. “ _Uhg_ —Yes, I loved it, _yes_ I would love doing it again. But _,_ I’m saying its not necessary. It’s not something you should feel you have to do for me if you don’t enjoy it. Okay?”

“But— but what if I want to do it someday?” He asked feeling a little foolish and very small. 

“Then, we will.” Harry said, smiling a little. “But I don’t want you going forward, thinking its something we _have_ to accomplish, for this— for us to be— _real._ Okay? This is as real as it gets.” 

He scooted closer and brought Draco’s hand up to his mouth to kiss and spoke into it. “I’ve told you before… you’re more than just an object of my desire. We don’t _need_ to be or do anything differently. What we have is perfect the way it is. I don’t have any expectations of anything more. Anything _different._ I never want you to think you owe me sex or something to keep me around or interested.” He picked up Draco’s mangled sock as if to demonstrate something. “You’re very interesting without it.” 

Draco finally allowed himself to smile. The tight knot in his chest loosened slightly, but not altogether dissipating. He figured that bit of internalized guilt may stay with him for a while. Forever, maybe. Even in the face of Harry’s eager pronouncements.

_____

 

November 18, 2009

Juniper, in her amusing/nosey sort of way, had been reading Draco’s notes over his shoulder, much to his annoyance, when she commented on the structure of a potion he had been agonizing over for weeks. 

“I saw some notes you had left in that desk of yours upstairs,” she started thoughtfully, “I think this would be a good application for thestral placenta, don’t you? Look,” she pointed at his nearly illegible diagram, “it could replace the iron compound the _angelica_ needs.”

He was about to tell her that, no, surely it could not, but he stopped himself because the cogs in his brain began moving. “Why didn’t I think of that?” he asked himself, scribbling madly. 

Together they sat hunched over the large table, Juniper summoning the notes Draco had vanished to the desk drawer before he had been attacked. Draco muttering potion’s theories to Juniper who had an excellent handle on the understanding of oxytocic herbal compounds. 

“Crippling period cramps.” She shrugged by way of explanation when he asked why on earth she had a master’s understanding of certain plants and physiological functions. “The stuff Madam Pomfrey gave out always made me vomit, so I learned to make my own. The trick is to add extra ginger, and lemon pips for the pectin.” She winked cheekily. 

“When are you applying to a Potion Masters’ program?” He queried. 

She blushed in an embarrassed sort of way and changed the subject without answering. “Your eleven o’clock is about to arrive. Their file is in the holder on the exam room door.”

“I thought I only had three appointments today?” He asked, he had seen Mrs. Diedry and Mr. Moran this morning, and his third appointment wasn’t supposed to arrive until two.

“Oh, it was a last minute booking while you were with Mr. Moran, sorry, I should have said, I got distracted by your potion puzzle.” She shrugged apologetically, looking slightly abashed at her mistake.

Draco sighed. “It’s fine, just give me some warning next time.” He stood, knees cracking loudly. “I’d better go, then. Watch the liver repair potion, will you? It needs to be cool down incrementally before we can bottle it. Send in the patient when they get here. ”

“Sure thing.” she said, already moving with confident hands to the brewing bench. 

Draco strode up the hall to the exam room and plucked the file out of the pocket on the door before walking into the room towards his desk. Opening the file, he felt complete and utter confusion wash over him before walking straight back out to Juniper with a furrowed brow. 

“Is this correct?” He asked her, holding the file up. “This is who made the appointment to come at 11?”

“Yes, sir.” She said, glancing at the folder before she looked back down to the task at hand. “Ms. Hermione Jean Granger-Weasley requested an appointment by owl for the earliest time you had available, and would I please squeeze her in today if possible. She said her work schedule is a bit hectic at the moment and free hours are hard to come by.”

Draco just stared at her, his confusion mounting. 

“Is everything okay?” She asked, seeing his apparent loss for words. 

“It’s nothing, no— Nope. Okay— that’s— right, then. Very well. Thank you.” He babbled, retreating back to the exam room, Juniper’s questioning gaze following him. 

Back in the exam room, he read the brief notes Juniper had jotted down. 

 

_Hermione Jean Granger-Weasley_

_Age: 28_

_Requesting exam and screening for possibility of blood curse. Hx of repeated miscarriage. Former patient of Healer Sprigg and Healer McDougal. No conclusive explanation of symptoms. Referred for fertility treatment._

 

Draco sat staring, lost in thought, until the tinkle of the bell at the front door jarred him out of his befuddled reverie. Moments later Hermione was being led into the exam room by Juniper, and the door was being shut quietly behind them. Draco smiled at her with a raised eyebrow and gestured for her to sit in the large plush armchair beside his desk. 

She smiled back, looking, for the first time Draco had ever seen, a bit bashful. 

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Granger-Weasley?” Draco said, in his most practised Healer tones. 

“Oh, please don’t.” She grimaced. “I know you’re a professional and all, but just call me Hermione, please. Okay?”

“Okay, Hermione.” He corrected, smiling again. “What can I do for you? I see in your notes it says you’re concerned about a blood curse? Can you tell me more about that?” 

Hermione took a deep breath, gathering her strength. “Before Rose was born— We both want— wanted— a large family. Ron loved having so many siblings, I had none, and loved his family— We wanted to give our children the same. Ron and I started trying two years before we had Rose. I had two miscarriages. Both at 20 weeks. Both boys.”

Her voice was sad, heavy, but she continued at a clipped pace. 

“I’m sorry.” He said gently.

“It’s okay— It’s — thank you.” She took another deep breath, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “Anyways. I had spotting early in both of those pregnancies. The healers said it looked like they could be threatened miscarriages, and that I should take it easy. We didn’t tell anyone I was pregnant. Didn’t want to get everyone excited or to have people following us around, worrying. We didn’t want Harry to worry— he was going through so much.” She looked up to Draco, the unspoken question whether he would tell him hanging on the end of her sentence. 

“Everything we talk about stays in this room.” Draco quickly assured, picking up the file and waving it. “Your name on this file binds me to silence for everything you say here, unless it's to another healer or law enforcement pertaining to a case. I am physically, magically, incapable of gossip. And even if I weren’t, I would never betray that trust. This stays between us. You have my word as a Healer and your friend.”

Hermione nodded, looking relieved. “I know that— I just— it’s been hard.”

Draco nodded and Hermione continued. “So, at 20 weeks on the dot, both pregnancies miscarried so quickly there was nothing to be done. Contractions came out of nowhere and it was done within the hour. The midwives and healers were baffled. They said they couldn’t find anything wrong. The baby and the placenta were perfectly formed, no anomalies, nothing— they just died.”

“Do you have copies of those files?” He asked. 

“Yes, of course.” She reached into her bag and pulled out not two, but three files, and passed them to Draco. “The risk of miscarriage at 20 weeks is less than 1% and it just seemed so— sinister that it happened three times.”

“Three?” Draco asked, flipping through the pages of the file, Sprigg’s familiar scrawl in the margins. The notes of the obstetric healers and midwives lacing the pages. 

“Yes— when I fell pregnant with Rose, I was in the hospital weekly after 12 weeks. Midwives and Healers keeping a close eye, but I had none of the early bleeding that I had had with the previous two, and the 20 week mark came and went without anything. I gave birth in St. Mungo’s just in case. Ron wanted a home birth, but, well— I felt better there, after everything that had happened." She shrugged, trailing off. 

Draco nodded, waiting for her to continue. 

“As I said, we wanted a big family. So we started trying again when Rose was 8 months old, after she weaned herself and started solids. I conceived on the 31 of May. Right after the trial—we’re very sure about our dates. Ron was so chuffed—” She smiled softly at the memory, wistful and fond. “We didn’t tell anyone. Just kept it to ourselves. Wanted to wait ‘til at least 12 weeks. But— but the bleeding started again around 6 weeks— the healers said to take it easy— but, I mean, we were getting into the research, and— I tried to take it easy… I tried.” She said, more to herself than to Draco. Guilt pouring out around her. 

She shook herself and ploughed on. “Anyways— October 13th rolled around and the contractions hit like a freight train, just like the other two. I was already at the hospital, of course, just in case— we were prepared. Well, I mean, as much as one can be. Same story— beautiful boy, perfectly formed, no signs of malformation or any reason why it should happen. It just did. After that, they referred me to a fertility clinic. They also don’t know what to do with me.”

“Mmm.” Draco pondered, scratching notes into the file, letting Hermione’s story wash over him. “And, why do you think it might be curse related?”

She looked up into his eyes for a long moment, clearly choosing her words carefully. “I’ve had a theory for a while. After talking with others who had similar experiences. Luna, too, was worried in the beginning. She didn’t announce her pregnancy to anyone, not even Greg, until after 20 weeks. Penelope. Same story. Miscarriage after miscarriage— all boys— There are others as well, that I have found—”

Draco was looking at her with bemused confusion, trying to piece together what she was trying to tell him. 

“When we were brought to Malfoy Manor.” She expounded. “When Bellatrix tortured me— do you remember what happened?”

They had never spoken about this. Never relived the horrid memory together. Draco had sucked in a breath and held it for a beat before blowing it out and shaking his head. “Honestly, Hermione— I was so— terrified. So unbelievably horrified that I couldn’t do more to help you— I don’t remember most of what happened to you. I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s okay—” She started. “It’s just that— what she said. It didn’t really make sense to me at the time, and there was so much happening— I was so out of it for most of it. But— but, when she carved that word into my arm—” She pulled up her sleeve to reveal the thin raised scar; _mudblood_. Silvery pink against her ember tourmaline toned skin. 

Draco felt nauseous. He was cold and sweaty looking down at the scar on Hermione’s arm, being forced to remember that terrible day, forced to hear how much worse it was for her. His privilege at being on the side of the aggressors laid out on the desk between them. Bits of his dream from days before came filtering through to the forefront of his mind and flitting images began slotting themselves into place. Forming a larger picture. He swallowed around the lump in his throat.  

“When she carved this— I passed out— but, before I did, I heard her whisper in my ear. An incantation of sorts. She said something about ending my family line— about not allowing mudbloods to carry wizarding heirs. The incantation sounded french— or Italian— anyways, I had forgotten about for years. Buried it. Tried never to think about it. But, after miscarrying three boys, all at 20 weeks, I started thinking about it again. Wondering. Had she cursed me? But, the healers couldn’t find anything. No trace of curse damage. Nothing.” 

Draco was staring at her, his brain working at lightning speeds. Memories. Myths. Family legend. Pureblood rhetoric. All ricocheting around his mind as Hermione kept talking. 

“Penelope, too, miscarried several times. All boys. All at 20 weeks. Luna’s twins— she was worried in the beginning, one being a boy— she had had some early spotting as well— the midwife says they share a placenta, though. That must count for something?” She finished hopefully. 

“Hermione, thank you for telling me all of this.” He started, a feeling of certainty settling around him. Suspicions and theories that had hung vaguely in the air, solidifying in his mind. 

She nodded, looking tired. Looking sad. 

“May I examine you?” he asked and she nodded. He went through the motions of a full physical, carefully, with determined focus. He ran through a list of all of his diagnostic spells. Channeling all of his energy into feeling the spells, feeling their results. Looking for any sign of malevolence lurking in Hermione’s veins. 

At some point, Violeami had appeared in the room. Standing still as a statue by the door. No plodding hooves, no shrill knickering, no endearing snorting. She silently watchd as Draco concentrated deeply on the work at hand. 

All of the diagnostics came back negative, except one. One shimmering so vaguely, so minutely, so indistinctly that if he had blinked at the wrong time he would have missed it. Would have chalked it up to a trick of the light. But, no, there was something there. He cast again, focusing more deeply, pulling at the thread of purple light that barely existed at all, tendriling its way through Hermione’s blood. 

Hermione let out a grunt of discomfort and twitched away from Draco’s wand at her navel. 

“Where do you feel the discomfort?” He asked seriously, captivated by the thread of dark magic winding its way into her skin. Spidering out from her belly button.  

“In— In my pelvis and my chest, above my heart. My scar hurts a bit too. Tingles.” She said sounding confused. 

Draco examined the faint tendril as much as he could without hurting Hermione before he was certain of what he was seeing. Certain of a way forward. He cancelled the spell and turned away back to his desk and left Hermione to redress on the other side of the partition in the room. 

When she made her way back to the desk she sat down and looked at him with an expectant expression. 

Draco began without preamble. “Hermione, you were right, there is a blood curse. It evaded all but one diagnostic spell, and even that nearly missed it.”

Hermione slumped in her chair and closed her eyes. “I can’t tell if I’m relieved or horrified.” 

“I don’t know this curse, Hermione, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to be done. I need to do some research.” He assured her.

“So, what should I do in the meantime?” She asked, clearly wanting a plan of action. Something to _do._

“Be kind to yourself.” He said. “Those miscarriages weren’t your fault. They didn’t happen because you weren’t ‘taking it easy’—  Bellatrix did this to you. There’s nothing you could have done differently.”

Hermione nodded, biting her lip, her eyes, for the first time since she arrived, filling with tears.

“It might take me some time, and I obviously can’t make you any promises, but I have a starting place. We have a way forward.”

Hermione nodded and wiped her eyes, laughing pitifully when Draco conjured her a handkerchief. 

“If you could convince Penelope to come in, as well, I think examining her to see if its the same curse would be immensely beneficial. I’m not going to approach Luna about his just now, though, seeing as she’s about to give birth in the next few weeks. But, I’ll speak to her sometime in the new year.”

Hermione agreed wholeheartedly, sniffling. “Gods, Ron has been obsessed with her pregnancy, the poor man. He’s been spending so much time with Greg. I swear if he could grow a uterus and birth babies himself he would do it in a heartbeat. He even offered to breastfeed Rose for me.” Hermione laughed thickly, blowing her nose. 

Draco couldn’t help laughing. Not at the thought of Ron breastfeeding, no, there was nothing inherently funny about that. He laughed at how very _Ron_ the notion was. He was the most capable father Draco had ever met and had no doubts that he would have gladly lactated in Hermione’s place if given half a chance. How fitting the role would have been for him. 

Hermione stood, forgoing all formalities of the appointment, and hauled Draco into a crushing hug. “I’ll see you Saturday for the fidelius.” she sniffed before making a hasty exit past a silently watchful Voileami. 

 _______

 

At a quarter to two, Juniper walked into the brewing room with a cup of tea to chase Draco away from his notes and back into his exam room. “I just have one more— _Juniper_!” Draco said indignantly, trying to continue writing on his parchment as Juniper spelled his chair to roll towards the door. “I can walk myself!”

Juniper just smirked as the chair continued to make its way out the door and down the hall, depositing him at the threshold of his exam room. “Never in my life— I swear to Salazar...this is _my_ — I’m _your_ employer!” He muttered threateningly as he stood from the chair and turned to Juniper. She didn’t flinch, instead, she handed him his cup of tea, mint with honey, as he liked in the afternoon, and then the file for the last appointment of the day. 

“Mr. Montgomery-Flint will be here soon.” She smiled. “I’m just finishing bottling the brew from this morning, but I’ll send him in when he gets here.” She finished, turning without waiting for a response. Confident in a way that baffled Draco. 

 He continued muttering in a half mutinous, half enamoured sort of way as he sipped his tea and sat down to read the file. 

 

_Felix Montgomery-Flint_

_Age: 21_

_Squib. Known curse damage. Hx of addiction, hallucinations, delusions, psychotic episodes. Here to investigate curse related hallucinations. Psychiatric in-patient program as well as in muggle recovery program._

 Interesting, thought Draco, rereading the file. Very interesting indeed. Though he had some experiences with curses that caused hallucinations, real psychiatric care was not his scope. He mulled over the curses he was familiar with that could cause profound psychiatric symptoms as he waited to hear the telltale tinkle of the bell at the front door. 

A few short minutes later it rang, and within moments, a quiet young man with large eyes and a soft face was sitting in the plush chair, watching him with unblinking eyes. He looked tired. Worried. His fingers fiddling endlessly with an elastic hair tie on his wrist, as though he didn’t even realize he was doing it. 

“Mr. Mont—” Draco tried to start. 

“Felix, please. Just call me Felix.” He interrupted, his voice slow, methodical. Something about his still, unblinking visage put him in mind of Luna. 

“Very well. Felix. Your file says you have confirmed curse damage, and that you're concerned about hallucinations. Can you tell me about that?”

At first, Felix didn’t respond. Didn’t make any indication that he heard Draco at all. He was staring at a point behind Draco, off to the left by the door. Draco turned with a raised eyebrow to see what had caught his attention, and he was not entirely surprised to see Voilami, again, but not happy at all that she had crashed another appointment. 

“I’m so sorry.” Draco said in an embarrassing sort of way, as he stood to usher her towards the door. “She knows she’s not supposed to be here.”

“She’s real?” He asked his voice for the first time changing in pitch. 

“Well, yes. She’s—” He wanted to say, _she’s mine, pay her no attention,_ but he was sure that sounded much too bizarre. 

“No, wait, let her stay.” Felix said, to Draco’s immense surprise. 

“I’ve been seeing thestrals everywhere, hearing them. Hearing hooves in the halls at the home I stay at. Wingbeats. The funny noises they make. I thought I was going mad again. Thought the medication wasn’t working. That’s why Harry told me to come see you. He said it might not be that simple.”

Draco stopped trying to push an unmoving Voileami to the door, giving it up as a bad job, and turned to look curiously at Felix. He knew Harry. Harry thought Draco could help him. Thought the Healers were missing something in his care. 

“Why don’t we start at the beginning.” Draco prompted kindly, sweating a little from his useless tussle with his stubborn thestral. 

“Yeah.” Felix sighed, finally breaking his intense gaze to rub his eyes with his fingers, and he started his story in a rambling burst of information. “I wasn’t born a squib— I was born with magic. Started showing signs young. I remember doing things like making flowers grow or changing the colour of things. Turn on lights. Little things. My dad was a pureblood. He got into a fight with someone— I must have six— it was with an old drinking buddy— I walked in to see what they were yelling about and the bloke shot a curse at me— I woke up in St. Mungo’s. Said it had damaged my magic somehow. Stunted it. I can still do little things— light candles. When I’m feeling a powerful emotion sometimes I have episodes of accidental magic— Exploded a few light bulbs last time I was hospitalized— started a few toilet fires— It’s why I started using. Helps kill the magic I can’t control.” 

Voileami had rounded the desk and was standing unnecessarily close to Felix, who hadn’t seemed to notice. His eyes looked a bit unfocused as he stared at the desk in front of him and continued to talk. “Anyways,” he continued, “I’m not here because I’m trying to fix the curse, not really, I’m just here because I wanted to know why I was hearing thestrals. Why I’m seeing them suddenly. I take muggle medication. No potions. Healers at St. Mungo’s don’t treat squibs in the same way— the muggle hospitals help as much as they can— don’t treat me different—” he trailed off, still staring at the desk. Snapping the elastic on his wrist to an even beat.

Draco thought carefully for a moment. “I can’t say why you’re seeing thestrals, not really, they’re strange creatures, I have to say. The one behind you is certainly not a hallucination. But, I am interested in learning more about this curse. Has anyone examined your curse since you were diagnosed?”

“No. I— I tend to avoid the magical community to tell you the truth. Coming from the purebloods on my dad’s. My grandmother on my mother’s side was a muggle. Stayed with her most of my childhood after parents found out I wouldn’t be going to Hogwarts.”

Draco furrowed his brow. It seemed stupid and foolish for Felix’s parents to allow his curse to go unchecked for the rest of his childhood and for him to not know how important it was for things like that to be monitored. 15 years is a long time for a curse to fester. 

“May I examine you?”

Felix shrugged and stood. 

It didn’t take long for Draco to detect the curse. It wasn’t hidden like Hermione’s. There was no subtly, no finesse. Buried deep in the centre of Felix’s magical core like a tick. Stunting it. It reminded him of an aphid infestation draining the life out of an unsuspecting tree. Weakening it. Felix may have been dubbed a squib, but that was an incorrect term. He had magic. His core was full of it, battered though it was. Strangled by the curse. He was a wizard unable to tap into his own well of bursting magic. 

A squib had no well such as that. No, Felix was not a squib, and Draco was furious that he had been told he was. He was frankly astonished that Felix had lived and survived for as long as he had with such damaged and mangled magic. With a curse that had been allowed to molder in the depths of him. 

He marvelled at its invasive roots, digging into Felix’s solar plexus, squeezing. The tendrils, like citrine ropes giving off the faint smell of rusted iron and feted lilacs. Perfumed corrosion. Voileami snorted softly on the other side of the partition and Felix’s lip twitched into a distant sort of grimaced smile. 

“Are you alright?” Draco asked, carefully plucking at the thick cables of spell work twined between his ribs. 

“Sore.” He muttered softly. 

“I’ll be done shortly.” He assured, taking a final moment to track the pulsing cords.

Draco left Felix to redress, walking swiftly past Voileami and out the room, towards his potions storeroom at the very back of the hall. He knew that curse. Recognized it. His brain following the threads of his memory through his training and early days as a Healer. Working under Sprigg. He had seen this twice before—there were no cures then, though. Only symptom management. 

Not anymore, he thought victoriously, the DoM had tested his tail hair potion on one of those victims. There had been positive results. Slow, but positive.

_Excellent._

He rummaged madly through the bottles at the back of his shelves. Pushed them aside and waved his wand to reveal a trap door in the wall. The cubby where he hid his thestral potions. Kept them safe. Out of sight. 

“Felix, I have something I want to try.” Draco announced reopening the door. He stopped on the threshold, startled at the sight of Felix standing with Voileami, his arms wrapped soundly around her neck, eyes closed, head resting against her, face peaceful. Her head was tucked around his shoulder, holding him close, nibbling his shirt collar. “Oh— sorry— didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Felix laughed quietly at himself, released the thestral, patted her beak tenderly, and came to sit back at the desk. Voileami followed closely behind. Resting the flat expanse of her forehead on the back of the tall chair. Tail swishing softly. 

“She’s normally not this intrusive—I don’t know what’s gotten into her—” Draco said apologetically, but Felix wasn’t having it. 

“No, no— I like it. She’s great, now that I know it’s real. I know some magic folk are scared of them, but grew up mostly muggle, and she’s not so bad, is she?” He looked happier, more animated than he had when he first arrived. 

“No, she’s not.” He said kindly, smiling at the reaction Voileami seemed to have elicit from Felix. 

“You said you had something for me to try?”

“I do.” Draco said, slipping back into his Healer role. “The curse you have, I’ve seen it twice before. It’s— It’s not something that should have been left to fester on its own without follow up, Felix. You’re not a squib. Even if you can’t perform magic, you have a magical core. Magic is a part of your physiology. And, as such, your livelihood is intimately linked to it. This curse could kill you without proper management.”

Felix was quiet for a long while. An unreadable expression on his face. Draco waited. 

“My— My delusions… I mean— my psychiatric problems… are they related to this?” 

“No. I don’t think they are.” Draco said, not unkindly, but directly. “This curse doesn’t cause psychiatric issues. I don’t think you were hallucinating the thestrals though, Felix, I think they sought you out because you needed this help.” Felix nodded, looking slightly disappointed. 

“This potion shouldn’t have any interference with your muggle medication and you should continue to take it, but, just in case, if you start having any hallucinations that are not thestral related, I want you to stop the potion immediately and go to St. Mungo’s. Ask for Healer Unice Rhoda, and tell her to contact me. Alright?” 

Felix left the office with full instructions on how to take the potion. 10ml, twice per day with meals. A follow up appointment set for the following week. Draco’s heart filled with the fluttering feeling of expectancy as Voileami nudged him with her soft beak. 

 _______

 

November 20, 2009

“Harry, you do _not_ have to do this. I am not asking you to put yourself through this.” Draco reiterated, pleadingly. 

“I know, I know. But I _want_ to. We’re having this big ceremony tomorrow, and you’re trying to patch up your relationship, and it only seems right that she meets me in this capacity, yeah?”

Draco didn’t respond, just stared at him in disbelieving bewilderment. 

“I won’t stay the whole time. Just a cup of tea, then I’ll leave you to talk.” When Draco still didn’t respond he slumped his shoulders and moved forward, reaching for Draco’s hand. “Come on, Draco, what’s the worst that could happen?” 

A shrill, strangled sound escaped Draco’s throat. What could go wrong? _What could go wrong?_ His inner boggart nearly manifested in the room to show Harry just _what_ could go wrong.

“Okay, yeah, it might be awful. That’s fine though. I’m prepared for it.” He winked cheekily at Draco before leaning in and kissing him lightly on his cheek. Draco was still trapped in a state of shock at the turn of the morning’s events. 

Finally regaining the ability to speak he scratched out his rebuttal. “Harry, its _high tea_ at an old pureblood parlour _with_ _my mother._ Who still doesn’t know it’s _you_ I’m dating, nor is she expecting to meet my— my— significant _other. Ugh_ — no proper decorum, honestly— I’ll never hear the end of it _…_ my poor mother might die of shock in public. _In public!”_ He suddenly shouted. “You want to meet my mother _in public?!_ After everything  _The Prophet_ wrote about us?”

Harry was smirking unconcernedly at Draco’s rambling rants. 

“I’m not worried about _The Prophet_ or your mother, _or_ being seen in public with the two of you. It’s a small parlour, we’re going to a private table, it’ll be _fine._ Come, we’re going to be late.”

“You can’t go to high tea dressed like that!” Draco yelled, scandalized. “Dear _lord_ , Harry— your trousers are basically falling apart. Go put on the suit you wore to court, I’ll transfigure it slightly—”

“You want me to wear a suit?!” It was Harry’s turn to sound scandalized. 

“Well, obviously! You can’t wear _leather_ to _brunch!_ ” He nearly yelled, stomping around the cottage, feeling sweaty and anxious by what he was facing. 

Harry was muttering about stuck up purebloods as he changed his clothes. Draco pacing a loop around the circular room. 

He was supposed to have a quiet tea with his mother on neutral territory to discuss what she knew about Bellatrix and the ancient blood curse Draco suspected she had been using. He had _not_ planned on an enthusiastic Harry _insisting_ to be included in the exchange. Determined to introduce himself as Draco’s partner to his mother. _What could go wrong?_ He thought a bit wildly. _What_ indeed.

After transfiguring Harry’s suit slightly, and changing the colour from forest green to a deep mauve, he tried uselessly, one last time, to convince Harry to stay. 

“Stop worrying so much.” Harry reassured, smiling. “I’m very charming.” Draco couldn’t roll his eyes hard enough. 

 _________  


Draco supposed that brunch could have gone worse. Certainly, it could have been less awkward, sure. But, it wasn’t the flaming hellscape he had been anticipating. No one threw a platter of scones, they all parted with their limbs intact, and Harry hadn’t dumped him, so he supposed he would have to live with the rest of it. 

The subtle twitching of his mother’s eye when Harry had waltzed in behind Draco, nearly sent him running. Though he did have to say he was rather impressed with how well she maintained her composure in the face of Harry’s brash existence. The shock of their relationship. His complete disregard for formality and social etiquette. 

“Mr. Potter,” she had said, a confused lilt in her voice, “what a surprise. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“Mrs. Malfoy, please, call me Harry.” He had replied politely, confidently, reaching for her hand. “I’m here to introduce myself as your son’s suitor.” 

 _Suitor_. Draco had thought a bit madly, trying hard not to vomit on himself from nerves. Her eyes flicked back and forth between them for a shocked moment before she settled on, “Well, then, we’ll need another chair” and flagged down a waiter. 

Harry really was charming when he wanted to be, Draco had mused wryly as he watched Harry smoothly weasel his way into his mother’s good graces. Narcissa seemed to warm to Harry quickly enough after the initial shock of his appearance. She asked them all of the awkward questions; _How did this happen? Where did you meet again? Where is it you disappeared to for that whole year? What do you do for work now, Harry? Where are you living? What are your plans for marriage? Will it be a traditional wedding? When are you having children?_

Harry managed to answer every question without saying anything at all. Draco figured it must have been a habit of his from dealing with nosey reporters. Dodging anything that was too invasive. “We’re still working out what we want our future to look like.” He said sweetly, smoothly, shoving a scone in his mouth. 

After an agonizing 45 minutes of interrogation and painfully bland small talk, Harry had risen, apologizing profusely for not being able to stay. He kissed Draco gently on the cheek before making a hasty escape, leaving Draco in the line of his mother’s profoundly unamused gaze. 

There was an awkward pause before Narcissa seem to shake herself. “He seems lovely. I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you.” Draco breathed out, flooding with relief. “He really was looking forward to speaking with you.”

Narcissa smiled a brittle smile, and the tension broke slightly. After another 20 minutes of idle chit chat. Catching up. Reacquainting themselves with one another. Draco brought the conversation around to his work. To Bellatrix. 

“During the war, I overheard a conversation between you and Aunt Bella— she mentioned cursing others. About how she miscarried. I just— I wanted to know what you could tell me. It has come to my attention, through my work, that Bellatrix and her malicious nature may have had some particular lasting consequences.”

Narcissa looked shaken. She was silent for a long moment, searching Draco’s face before she sighed heavily. 

“Bella— it’s an old curse.” She looked down at her hands, torn. “From what I know— from what our mother told us— Walburga, you see, was furious that her brother Cygnus married a Rosier, my mother— Druella. She believed, as did her parents, that all three of them should have intermarried into the Black line— cousins— purifying it, or so they thought. As did Walburga, who married her cousin Orion.” Narcissa was tracing idle patterns onto the lace table cloth in front of her with a manicured finger, recollecting the memories. 

“Walburga used an ancient curse. _Le Sang de l’héritier de la Cinquième Lune_

 _—_ old, deep magic—“

“The blood of the heir of the fifth moon?” Draco asked the translation sounding clunky, confusing. 

Narcissa nodded, sighing. “Roughly. Yes. Essentially its a curse to prevent heirs from being born of those deemed unworthy to carry on a family name. It prevented muggle borns or half bloods from birthing pureblood heirs.”

“That seems incredibly dangerous. And foolish.” Draco scoffed. 

“It is.” Narcissa agreed. “But, it’s not enough to just know the words. These old types of magic— like the unforgivables— they need intention. Powerful intention. A pure, unadulterated desire to cause pain. I could point my wand at every childbearing person in this establishment and say the words and none would be harmed.”

“So, Walburga placed this curse on Grandmother Druella?” Draco asked, sitting on the edge of his seat, leaning towards his mother, not wanting to miss a single word. “What does that have to do with Aunt Bella?

“Yes, your grandmother was cursed, but she never knew. She miscarried once, early in her marriage, but went on to have three healthy daughters. No one thought much of it until—” his mother trailed off, clearly remembering something unpleasant.

“Until?” Draco prompted, trying not to be impatient. 

“Until my mother was visiting dear Walburga one day with the three of us. We were young, Bella hadn’t even started Hogwarts yet. She had left us alone with Walburga in the drawing room for mere moments, to use the powder room. When she came back she heard the spell, saw the swirl of violet smoke, knew what it was. She burst in, disarmed Walburga, grabbed the three of us, and took off.”

Draco was shaking his head, mouth opened slightly. “Mother, how—”

“Your grandmother had gotten there just in time to spare me. If she hadn’t, you’d have never been born… Dromeda and Bella— they weren’t so lucky.” She said sadly, her eyes misty. 

“Was she even aware of what had happened to her?” Draco asked, numb disbelief at the whole sad story. 

“Mother called her midwife to come to see us. An old, old very experienced midwife, she was— too bad she had retired by the time you were born— a lot of knowledge has been lost since then. Traditions not passed down. She understood the deep magic. Knew the pureblood myths and legends. She came to examine us. Found the curse in my sisters, but she couldn’t do anything to help. Didn’t know of a cure. As you saw, it ate Bellatrix up over the years after she realized what it all meant. She miscarried several times— wanted to do it to others. Didn’t want to be alone in her grief. She spent years hunting down the curse origin. Learned to use it.” His mother looked suddenly old in the soft light of the parlour. Sorrow deeply creased in the lines on her face under a thick layer of powdered makeup. 

They sat in silence for a long while. Draco mindlessly stirring his cup of tea. Considering. After what felt like an eternity he asked, “Is this midwife still alive?”

Narcissa looked surprised, “I’m not sure, Draco, but I could tell you where to look.” She offered. 

“I would appreciate that, thank you.” He said, reaching across the table and squeezed her hand. 

_____

 

November 21, 2009

The morning dawned bright and cold. Draco had been awake for hours, lying on his back, Harry wrapped around his side, an arm across Draco’s chest, drool on his shoulder. 

He was thinking too hard about the day ahead. A thrumming crescendo of panicky anticipation crashing through him in regular intervals like waves on a battered coast. Relentless. Persistent. 

His eyes stared unseeingly at the bare ceiling. No hanging herbs from the summer they hadn’t spent here. He couldn’t wait for spring to descend on them so he could once again obscure the thatch ceiling with floral and woody herbs. 

Harry roused in his sleep. Draco took a deep breath. Braced himself for the day. The inevitability of it. 

Harry was fiddling with the kettle when Little Dipper swooped into the kitchen through the open window on a brisk wind, dropping the day’s paper neatly into Draco’s lap. 

“Oh, you’re getting so much better at this.” Draco crooned, reaching out to stroke the ridiculous black tufts of feathers. He nicked a piece of toast from the table and gave it to the damnably cute owl, whispering, “shhh” with a smile. 

“I saw that.” Harry said, his back still turned to Draco. 

“You saw _nothing_.” Draco retorted, giving the bird another piece. 

Harry turned around, just in time to see Draco retracting his hand. He shook his head smiling. “Who's the weakest link now? Mm? I thought you said we had to be more stern with him?”

“I am not! How dare— weakest link! I never—” Draco challenged robustly. “He was so good! He deserves bread! He didn’t knock a single thing over this morning—”

“That is a low bar if I’ve ever heard one—” Harry was smirking. Clearly not even caring, just enjoying winding Draco up. 

“Oh, do shut up, _Harry_ —” He spat with mock rudeness, unfolding the paper and pompously holding it up to block Harry from view. Harry snorted and continued making their tea. 

He was flipping idly through the pages. Advice columns. International gold trade. Someone won a Dumbledore lookalike contest and with it, a year’s supply of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans. Odd. He was just wondering about the day’s crossword, turning another page, when his name jumped out at him. Many times. An article. 

Written by Dennis Creevy. 

 

 _...on behalf of the staff at The Prophet I’d like to extend our deepest apologies to one Healer Draco Lucious Malfoy, for the slanderous accusations thrown at him in a previous addition of this paper_ — 

 _...since then, your very own, Dennis Creevy, has received numerous letters of support for the well loved Healer. By no means are we trying to sugar coat Mr. Malfoy’s past misdeeds or history, but we want our readers to see just how well loved this acquitted and repentant former Death Eater really is_ — 

 _...Harry Potter himself has reached out to make a public statement regarding the wild rumors surrounding the nature of their relationship_ — 

_...none of anyone’s business who I date, thank you very much. I am gay. And, not available by any means. As for whether I would deign to date someone like Draco, well, I think the work he has done to admit his mistakes, right his wrongs, give back to his community, and continuously stand up in the face of bigotry makes him an incredibly brave man, and anyone would be lucky to land themselves someone like that_ — 

 Draco felt hot all over and stunned like someone had smacked him in the face with a frying pan. He didn’t know what to make of this. And, it wasn’t just Harry that had written kind and loving words about him, extolling him as a loving friend and excellent Healer, no, there were so many others. Hermione, Luna, Greg, Hestia, Neville, Pansy, even Ron had written something nice about him. _McGonagall._ Dear Salazar, what in Circe’s tits was happening? Was he having a stroke? Was any of this real? When had they all done this?

“—Draco, hey— _Oi!”_ Draco didn’t know how long Harry had been trying to get his attention, he lowered the paper and blinked dumbly at him. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, curiously. 

“What am _I_ — what are _you_ doing?!” Draco croaked, shaking the paper at him, feeling bewildered. 

Harry’s eyes opened wide for a moment, before snatching the paper and saying “ _Oh_ — I uh, I didn’t think that would be out ‘til Monday, I—” He wasn’t looking at Draco as he ran a nervous hand through his hair. 

“ _Why?_ ” Draco croaked out.

“What do you mean _why?”_ Harry asked looking up, almost angrily, definitely, no longer looking nervous. 

“You didn’t have to do— no one had to— _why_ did you all—” Draco just kept stuttering out incoherent bits of thought, feeling overwhelming confusion mixed with a deep sense that he didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve to be defended or protected. 

“Of course we didn’t _have_ to. But, we did. Because we wanted to. Because we all love you. Deal with it.” He was smiling in a challenging sort of way, waiting for Draco to argue some more. 

After a long silence in which Draco’s brain worked very hard to do _anything_ he croaked, “very well, then. Thank you.” His eyes felt a bit stingy and hot and his face felt flush. He was overcome with some sort of explosive emotion and didn’t know what to do about it. 

“Why are you crying?!” Harry said looking bewildered, clearly not having anticipated this reaction _at all_. He sat quickly and reached for Draco’s hand.

Draco shrugged feeling immensely foolish, proof of his friends love and support for him laid out on the table in front of him. A public declaration. His boggart echoing in the recesses of his mind that he did not deserve it. 

_____

 

It had taken a few more cups of tea for Draco to stop feeling so overwhelmingly emotional about a stupid _Prophet_ article. When he finally regained his composure, he and Harry went over the ceremony for the evening. After writing down the incantation, the series of steps involved, and how they needed to set up the garden, Draco was feeling more like himself. More in control. Harry had spent the whole time watching Draco closely, a loose smile playing on his face every time Draco demanded to know why he was looking at him so intently. He just shook his head, smirking saying, “nothing, nothing at all.” To which Draco would narrow his eyes and demand more tea. 

The distant pops of apparition reached Draco’s ears and he was filled, fit to burst, with purest unease. The sun had long gone down. Their garden was cleared of snow. A dining table for 9 had been manifested in the clearing near the well and placed under an _impervious_. Draco was determinedly pacing around the cottage having dressed hours ago. His simple grey ceremonial robes having needed to be dried with magic near a dozen times already, sweating as much as he was. Harry was only just now in the loo, getting changed. 

Draco’s apprehension for the evening was reaching a crescendo when the door open and in waddled a very large Luna followed by Greg looking as though ready to catch her should she suddenly topple over. 

“Oh, this is lovely.” Luna was saying, her wide eyes sweeping the entirety of the room before settling on Draco who was frozen in place near the fire. She was wearing bright yellow formal robes under her purple winter cloak. “Hello, Draco, you look dapper.”

“Luna.” He sighed, feeling relief at the sight of her, moving forward to be enveloped in her arms. Hoping that she could somehow ground him. Keep him from evaporating. 

“How are you feeling?” Greg asked in his gentle baritone, squeezing Draco far too tightly. 

“Fine. I’m fine.” Draco assured, too quickly. Greg laughed.

“It’s sweet how nervous you are.” Luna said embarrassingly. “Isn’t it lovely how similar the old fidelius ceremony is to nuptials? Is that why you look as though you want to run? Are you getting cold feet?”

Draco’s eyes had nearly popped out his head. “ _Nuptial?”_ he stammered, his voice nearing shrill, his heart racing. “Never— we’re not— I didn’t— this isn’t—” 

“Please don’t spook off my man before this thing even gets underway.” Came Harry’s smooth, calm voice from the loo as he opened the door and strode across the room, smiling. Draco’s stammering ceased and he narrowed his eyes at Harry. He looked unbearably good in his deep green suit and tamed hair, wrangled into a bun, that Draco felt, momentarily, at a loss for words. Forgetting what on earth was happening. 

Harry hugged Greg and Luna before turning to Draco with a challenging smirk. “Scared, Malfoy?” 

 _Yes._ He thought desperately. “You wish.” he said. 

Harry’s grin lit up his entire face before they were distracted by more pops of apparition and the sound of Ron narrating his journey to the front door. 

“Who’d’ve thunk, this cabin, way out here— That’s a big table— when do we eat— I could eat a whole cow—” 

“Yes, Ronald, I’m sure they’re going to feed you.” Came Hermione’s amused voice. 

More pops. Hestia and Neville’s familiar tones joining that of Ron and Hermione’s. Admiration in Neville’s voice as he exclaimed at the wiggentree, at the size of the garden as a whole. 

“We’d better go outside, this place isn’t big enough to hold all of us.” Said Harry, as he bounded to the door, pure joy on his face for the chance to show off his forest home to his nearest and dearest. 

One last pop sounded, followed by Pansy’s haughty intonations. “Dearest me, Hestia Carrow, is that you? Oh— Goodness, it’s been an age, darling!”

Draco followed Luna’s slow steps out the front door to see seven of their closest friends, all chatting together, dressed indeed, as if they were attending a wedding. Draco was suddenly uncomfortably hot, even in the chill breeze of the dark evening. Luna, Hestia, Greg and Neville were all wearing formal wizarding robes. The kind worn to pureblood ceremonial occasions, with silver fastened cloaks. Pansy, Hermione and Ron were wearing muggle formal wear. Ron in a dark suit and dress shoes, Hermione in a burgundy pantsuit and heels, and Pansy in a long black gown and a deep purple coat. 

Draco went through the motions of greeting everyone, his anticipation and nerves ramping up once again. This was happening. They were really doing this. 

Harry cleared his throat, and Draco felt immeasurably relieved to see that he was taking charge. Because, if left to Draco, he might rather just accidentally-on-purpose wander off and get lost in the woods. Hide with his thestrals.

He came to stand up by Draco on the porch, taking his hand and clearing his throat once more. “Before we get started— I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for— everything.  For being here. For witnessing this. For sharing our secrets. For keeping us safe. For everything you’ve all done to help us both get here—” He squeezed Draco’s hand tightly and Draco returned the pressure, trying to keep himself together. “You’re— you’re all our family, and without you, none of this would be possible.”

Draco saw that his watery smile was being reflected back at him seven times over, under the star bright sky of the dark November night. Greg was openly weeping and Neville was sniffling loudly into a cloth handkerchief.

“Okay, so now Draco can explain to you what we’re going to do.” He smiled and looked to Draco who had to take a moment to try and subtly wipe his eyes on the back of his hand before clearing his own throat and saying. “Right, well. Yes— what Harry said, thank you for being here— I don’t think I can even adequately say how grateful I am to you all—” he said with a wavering voice.

Greg blew his nose and he saw Hestia wiping her eyes next to Neville. Pansy was looking straight up into the sky with a trembling lip as if trying to stop her welling tears from smudging her makeup. Luna was holding her belly, tears tracking down her cheeks, a radiant smile on her face as she looked up at them. 

“You all have to stop crying—” Draco huffed a watery laugh. “We haven’t even started yet—” They all chuckled in response as Draco sniffed loudly and Harry kissed his hand. Hestia turned around away from them with an ironic snort to gather herself, leaning on Neville. 

“Um— right—” He said more loudly, trying to inject some normality and authority in his voice.  “So, Harry and I are going to perform the spell under the wiggentree just over here— We’ll need all of you to stand around us in a circle. Have you all been practising the incantation?”

Seven heads nodded. Luna blew her nose loudly. “Very well. Harry and I will say it first, initiating the fidelius charm, and then you’ll all have to repeat it a full seven times to set the spell. To strengthen it. Then— then the secret will be in you as well, with Harry and I being the Secret Keepers— You’ll always be welcome here— you’ll always know where to come.” His voice trailed off and his throat felt tight. Hermione’s lip was trembling as she smiled lovingly at them, clutching Ron’s arm. Ron was wiping his eyes on Greg’s shoulder, patting his back roughly.

Harry pulled at Draco’s hand, nearly dragging him down the steps, past their misty-eyed guests, eagerly marching towards the wiggentree. As Harry took his place and turned to face Draco, taking both of his hands in his, Hestia came up close to them and placed her own hand on the tree. They watched curiously as her magic twisted in jewelled tones up the trunk, causing the branches and twigs to shake off the frost and snow. Buds formed and leaves burst forth. The wiggentree, awake with life, was ready to watch the magic that was about to shield the hollow from danger for good. 

Harry smiled at Hestia when she drew back her hand and walked to stand between Nevilled and Pansy. When Draco realized they were ready and that all eyes were on he and Harry, he took a deep, steadying breath. This was it. 

Harry was looking at him with the kind of radiance that made him want to melt. It was like looking into the sun. His eyes were gleaming in the dark and the stars above were reflected in green. All around them, seven hands lit with bluebell flames, casting their circle in a soft aquamarine glow. 

Harry squeezed his hands tight and spoke into the circle. “The home of Draco Lucius Malfoy and Harry James Potter can be found in Tenebris Hollow, the Forbidden Forest. I place this secret in you, Draco Malfoy.” He winked, still smiling. 

Draco hoped his voice wouldn’t tremble like his limbs were. “The home of Draco Lucius Malfoy and Harry James Potter can be found in Tenebris Hollow, the Forbidden Forest. I place this secret in you, Harry Potter.” 

He smiled back at Harry. They took a deep breath and began speaking together. “ _Fidelius. Filiatione: salus, familiae, et domus nostras custodiat corda nostra. Speravi in me animam meam: salvum me servare. Ad participes eorum apud quos amamus. Fidelius.”_

Golden wisps of smokey tendrils rose from the ground at a point between where they stood. It grew, reaching out, reaching up to the night sky, surrounding them, their friends, their home.

Their witnesses took up the chant, repeating it in perfect, practised unison. He looked into Harry’s eyes, feeling like he could drown in them. Seeing everything they had been through together. Their triumphs and failures. Their growth. He could see his past and his future written in the lines of Harry’s face. The crow's feet by his eyes, the smile lines of his mouth, telling him just how far they had come, how much more they had ahead of them. 

The humming rumble of the chant echoed in Draco’s mind and he could feel the pulse of the magic vibrating in his chest. He could feel the collective magic swirling around them, gaining momentum with each word that was spoken into the glowing blue circle. Feel the distinct presence of each person there, pouring their hearts out into the spell, just for Harry and himself. 

The web of golden smoke emanating from the centre of the spell became brighter, more pronounced, encompassing more than just their garden and cottage. Draco could feel in his heart where the golden force was extending to. Covering miles of forest, following the spellwork Harry had placed to protect them weeks ago. The hollow would be safe. Sacred ground for them. For their thestrals.

Amid the chants and swirling mist of golden latticework, Draco and Harry’s locked gaze was distracted by the beat of leathery wings. Flea and Voileami were walking in a wide loop around the glowing circle. Watching. Adding their voices to the magic.

As Draco’s eyes tracked the path of Flea behind Harry, he saw, off even further behind them, illuminated in the ephemeral light of the dancing spell work, were more thestrals. Dozens of them. Standing just beyond the edge of the forest. Harry had noticed them too, his eyes wide, marveling at their numbers. Their sentinel stance. 

Their eyes met again, on the 6th recitation of the spell, the epicentre of the fidelius charm blazing with brightness. It outshone the bluebell flames, emanating a sense of peace and sanctuary. The same feeling Draco had when Harry was pressed to his side. When he kissed him. When he knew what Draco was thinking without having to say it. He wondered if Harry felt it too. If he also felt as if would burst apart with the immensity of it. A new place having suddenly appeared in Draco’s rib cage, a thing made entirely of Harry and all the ways he made Draco feel whole. 

 _I love you_ he mouthed silently to Harry. _I love you, too_ Harry mouthed back. 

______

 

The rest of the night passed in a bit of a blur for Draco. When the last word of the spell had been sung, a ringing silence fell. The spell work fizzled out around them, the remnants of golden threads drifting on the air. The remaining floating wisps found their way to each of them. Every last bit of ephemeral magic was taking up residence in each of their hearts; knit into their very bones, twining along their limbs, woven into their magic. 

When the darkness enveloped them, Ron led a cacophony of cheering and clapping. They all rushed forward in an excited mob to hug Draco and Harry, together. Crying. Laughing. Exclaiming how beautiful it all was. How loved they were. Draco was overwhelmed. Overcome. Overflowing. His chest felt tight but his face couldn’t stop smiling.

 They feasted in the garden, courtesy of the house elves of Hogwarts. Warming charms had been placed all along the table, candles floating, illuminating their faces, everyone talking with great enthusiasm. They passed large trays of roast beef, tureens of gravy, an elegantly dressed cheese board with a plethora of dried fruits and charcuterie. Pansy passed around her sparkling grape juice and Neville, not to be outdone, poured everyone his hot spiced cordial. Ron had made and brought his mom’s pineapple ham and wouldn’t stop fretting about whether everyone had had enough to eat.

Harry and Draco sat far closer than necessary at the head of the table, finding a hundred excuses to touch one another throughout dinner. Harry’s hand resting gently at the small of Draco’s back. His thumb moving methodically on his spine. Draco’s hand on the nape of Harry’s neck, fingering the soft black curls that had escaped his hair tie during the flurry of spellwork and subsequent mobbing. Harry shooting frequent, undisguised, adoring glances at him. 

They all spoke long into the night, the stars blazing above them. The milky way hanging along the mountainous horizon to the south. The outline of thestrals and bats swooping in and out of sight. The chatter and the din of their celebration ringing out into the cool, clear air. 

It was long past midnight, everyone yawning in turn, the conversation slowing down. Harry leaning in frequently, almost as an excuse to press in closer, to touch his mouth to the shell of Draco’s ear, asking, _do you need anything? Are you cold? What can I get you?_ A thick blush creeping up Draco’s neck each time. 

Ron, seemingly unable to not comment on their inability to refrain from touching one another, announced, much to Harry and Draco’s chagrin that, “S’bout time we let these lovebirds be for the evening—” 

Seeing the deep blush that had overcome both Harry and Draco after Ron’s pronouncement, everyone assumed Harry’s sweet whispers must have been elicit in nature. One by one, they hugged and kissed their friends' goodbye, and watched them pop out of existence into the dark night. 

When silence settled in the garden once more, and they were finally alone, there was a charged moment. A beat of intensity. A hard blazing look, standing feet apart at the steps of their forest home. The heat smouldering between them, their magic dancing around their feet, reaching out. Harry’s green eyes looking at him, into his very being. His smile holding a promise. 

“Tea?” Draco croaked. Unable to stand in the intensity of Harry’s gaze any longer, the blinding beam of his affection, loving though it was. Harry chuckled, in an endeared sort of way, smiling. He nodded, unclasping his hands from behind his back, and walked towards the door. His magic calling after Draco. Draco who had to stand there in the dark cold night for a few moments. Collecting himself. Breathing. In and out. Deep breaths. Waiting for all the scattered pieces of himself to find centre. To come back. For his overwhelmed heart to calm down. 

When the cold air was finally too much, when he heard the clink and rattle of the kettle, of Harry’s easy shuffling movements, he finally drew one last frigid lungful of frosty air.  Glancing up at the stars shining bright above, he wiped his damp eyes and turned to face the rest of his night. The person he loved. The person who was waiting inside for him. Who was making him tea just as he liked it. Who knew the ugliest most ragged parts of him, and still loved him. 

Closing the door behind him he was struck by the achingly domestic sight of Harry in his pants and a threadbare Weasley sweater. His bun falling off his head in a mangled pile of hair. A fire was blazing in the grate and Harry was sipping from his chipped mug, standing far too close to the flames. He looked at peace. At home. Comfortable in a way that Draco was only beginning to learn to feel himself. The smell of their encourage-mints strong in the air. 

“Tea’s on the table.” Harry said pleasantly, not looking up from the fire. 

“Thank you.” Draco said, moving to take off his shoes. He stripped out of his formal wear on the way to his chest of drawers. Dropping each layer without much concern for where it landed. Seeking to join Harry in his comfortable state by the fire. 

Soon they were both standing, shoulder to shoulder, hands curled around their cups of milky sweet chai, barefoot in their pyjamas, staring down at the glowing flames. 

Harry broke the comfortable silence. “I never thought I’d be a part of magic like that.” He said quietly. “Never thought I’d see myself in an old pureblood ceremony— it— it was beautiful.”

His tone was pleased and amused. Draco was smiling into his tea. “Yes. It really was.” 

“I feel— I finally feel like we’ve come home. Like, this is it.” He turned to look at Draco who was still staring intently into the fire. Still feeling a bit overwhelmed from the whole experience. 

“Me too—“ He trailed off quietly. Wanting to say more. To say something more profound, but drawing a blank. “Me too.”

“Are you done?” Harry asked, indicating his tea. He was, and Harry sent the mugs back to the sink with a wave of his hand before taking Draco’s hand in his and leading him to the bed. 

Ensconced in a mountain of thick blankets they lay facing one another, their legs hooked together, their cold feet seeking warmth.

“Thank you— for doing this— for planning this. For suggesting it.” Harry said. 

Draco didn’t know what to say. He partially felt that his desire to perform the magic was hugely self serving, and that Harry and their friends were doing him a big favour by humouring him. He realized his silence had gone on too long when Harry squeezed his hands, looking for a response. 

“I— you’re welcome—” He said, feeling a bit disingenuous. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothings wro—”

“Don’t bullshit me, you’ve been weird and quiet since everyone left.” Harry was smiling, but his voice was stern. 

Draco took a few moments to gather himself. He didn’t know what was wrong. Nothing was actually wrong. Everything was, in fact, perfect. So perfect he felt fit to burst. And, maybe that’s what was so scary. Maybe that’s what was causing the ants under his skin to crawl. The feeling that something must be lurking out of sight. A danger he hadn’t foreseen. 

The night had been incredible. He saw proof in so many ways of how loved he was by their friends, by Harry, by the thestrals. He was overcome with it. So very overcome. 

“Everything went perfectly.” He finally said, sounding a bit surprised. 

“Were you expecting it not to?” Harry asked, still smiling. 

Draco shrugged, not knowing how to answer that. Yes, he supposed he was expecting it to end in raining hellfire and hexes. He was always expecting that. He still felt like he was covered in ants. He was cold from the temperature of the room and yet suddenly flush with sweat. Why was he like this? Why couldn’t he just appreciate the beauty of the evening?

Harry adjusted his hand in Draco’s and seemed to notice the clamminess. He lifted his other hand and traced it gently up Draco’s side, feeling more perspiration there, under his maroon jumper. 

“You’re allowed to have nice things, you know.” Harry said softly, casting a soothing drying charm over Draco’s skin before the sweat could cool and make him even more chilled. He shivered in response to the soft magic coating his body. 

Draco huffed. Not knowing what to say to that. Speechless at the ways in which Harry knew him. Sensed his thoughts. Understood how he worked. Leaned into it. 

His mind reeled with memories of the day. Of Harry’s letter to _The Prophet_. Of his declaration of family and of love. Of the golden lattice spellwork settling down in his very soul. 

Draco traced his hand up Harry’s arm and into his hair before leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on Harry’s forehead, not knowing what else to do with all of his _feelings_. Harry’s soft sigh ghosted across Draco’s neck. Sliding his hand out of Harry’s hair, Harry caught it and turned his head to kiss the inside of Draco’s wrist, before rolling onto his back. Pulling Draco over him, so that he straddled Harry’s hips. 

Draco leaned down to kiss Harry, a soft, tender thing. Their lust built slowly over long minutes. Their soft press of lips turning into something more insistent. More open. Their gentle hands, roaming tirelessly. Their bodies, their hips, moving against one another as the minutes wore on. Their breathing becoming more uneven.

There was a slow aching sweetness to it that built in Draco’s chest, had him panting onto Harry’s neck feeling a bit light headed, his limbs shaky with the knowledge of what he wanted to ask for. What he wanted to do. 

Draco’s mind was flashing with elicit letters shared in the night. In dog eared pages of _Herbert and Gable_ , of _Quintessence,_ of things that he had been brave enough to write down and send away at a distance but never brave enough to voice aloud or in person. Of things he had seen Harry read with lust raw on his face. Passages circled and highlighted. Underlined.

His mind was filled with a hundred fantasies of having Harry like that underneath him. If he could just be brave enough to voice it. 

“I— I want to try something.” He breathed against Harry’s skin. He smelled like fire smoke and the air after a summer thunderstorm. Of their encourage-mint that Harry had touched with tender strokes.

Harry’s fingers paused on Draco’s sides and he gripped fractionally harder on his skin as he said, in a quiet, hesitant voice, “Draco— I said we didn’t have to do anything— you don’t have to—”

“That’s not— it’s— if you don’t like it you can tell me to stop— it’s just— I’ve wanted to try something for ages—” he asked, the pitiful waver in his voice apparent, “Can I show you?”

Harry’s magic felt like the static before a lightning strike. The anticipation hanging in the air, making Draco’s skin tingle. He looked both dubious of Draco’s motives and yet wholly interested in what he might be suggesting. 

“I’m feeling brave.” Draco pressed, in a voice that didn’t sound brave at all. “Let me be brave.” He whispered. Knowing that this bravery was tentative. Fragile. Flighty. It could be gone in moments at the merest hint of doubt and insecurity. Draco was holding on to that thread of bravery with all of his might. Nearly trembling with the effort of keeping it . 

“Okay.” Harry said, after a beat of silent intensity, before kissing him again reassuringly, rolling his hips, his hardness, up against Draco. “Okay. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to turn over.” Draco murmured, moving to match Harry’s movements. 

Harry stilled, raising a questioning eyebrow, a small smile dancing on his lips. “Oh?”

“ _Yes.”_ Draco insisted, overcome with want, with nerves, resting his forehead on Harry’s. 

Harry momentarily gripped his arms hard, his eyes seeking Draco’s, seemingly seeking some sort of confirmation. 

“I’m here, Harry.” Draco breathed, looking back into the green, questioning eyes. “I’m here.”

Harry sighed a relieved sound, nodding, before pushing himself up. They divested one another of their clothes, quickly, tossing them aside, the cold air of the room prickling at their skin. 

Sharing one more impassioned kiss, Harry finally, finally turned over underneath Draco. 

Draco ran his hands lovingly up and down his firm back, his toned thighs, his gorgeous ass. He was leaning down to kiss along Harry’s shoulders, down his spine, down each butt cheek, adoringly rubbing his thumbs along the creases above his thighs. Harry’s breathing was shallow and uneven, his face buried in his pillow, his hair a disaster, sweat breaking out across his skin. Every now and then he responded to one of Draco’s kisses with a shudder, a moan. Draco filed each reaction away into his brain for later use, wanting to remember it all, learn all the ways he could make Harry feel good. 

Draco, for his part, couldn’t believe he was even still capable of holding himself up. That his hands hadn’t betrayed the frantic staccato of his heart. He was barely keeping it together. So engulfed as he was with his own desire, with Harry’s trust in him, with how much he wanted to give Harry.

Leaning over the side of the bed he grabbed his wand from the side table and cast a quick cleaning charm over Harry, who startled at the unfamiliar spell. 

“What—” He tried asking, before seeming to think better of it, before he buried his face into the pillow in front of him, breathing hard, his body tensing with anticipation. 

“Are you okay?” Draco asked, resting a tentative hand on the suddenly tight set of Harry’s shoulders, doubt momentarily clouding his arousal, his confidence. 

“ _Yes.”_ Harry said firmly, his voice muffled by the pillow. His body relaxing at Draco’s touch, his assurance. 

Conjuring lube into his hand, Draco slicked his fingers and Harry turned his face away from the pillow, trying to see, his breathing already labored. Draco parted his cheeks and rubbed a wet thumb along the crease.

Harry groaned softly, turning his face back to the pillow. 

“Tell me if you don’t like something.” Draco said as he continued his stroking motions, up and down, not yet stalling on the furled muscle that twitched with every pass of his thumb. Not really believing what he was doing. 

“ _Nhggg—”_ Harry moaned, nodding, spreading his legs slightly wider. 

Draco circled his thumb around Harry’s hole, teasing it, pressing it slightly. Harry’s hips were twitching against the mattress as Draco began to press in the tip of his thumb, rocking it, in and out. Kissing the top of Harry’s crease, Draco gripped his ass cheek harder, pulling him even more open. 

“ _Gods—_ Harry— you’re so beautiful.” He murmured, his breath huffing against Harry’s skin. Harry’s breathy moans and softly rocking hips urged Draco on, expanding his confidence, building his bravery. 

As his thumb worked in and out in shallow thrusts, and his open mouth breathed hotly on Harry’s open cleft, he traced his tongue around the tight muscle gripping the tip of his thumb. The touch caused Harry to buck hard into the pillows, seemingly against his will. 

“ _Fuck—”_ he whimpered. 

Draco removed his thumb, used both hands to hold Harry open. He alternated between tracing his tongue around the rippled flesh and licking broad strokes from the back of Harry’s balls to the top of his crease. Harry muttering a litany of curses into the pillow, punctuated with broken moans. 

Harry’s legs were beginning to shake after long, agonizing minutes of Draco working his tongue. His twitching hips were rolling back onto Draco’s face. Draco was gripping Harry firmly in his hands, licking, stroking, caressing. 

He was feeling a welling sense of power and confidence he had rarely felt before during sex. To have Harry’s submission, his trust, to be in control of the act, meant everything to Draco. It catalyzed his courage, his self assurity. To be able to reduce Harry to a pliant mass of whimpering limbs, melted into the bed, was a transcendent thing. 

“ _—please—_ Draco _— Gods—_ I _—”_ Harry was babbling nonsensically and Draco lifted his face, his lips feeling swollen. 

“What do you need Harry?” He asked, his voice husky, his thumb pressing back into Harry in lieu of his tongue. 

“Fuck, Draco— I need— I _need_ to come— please—” He begged. His whole body was trembling, his hips rocking back hard on Draco’s thumb before pushing forward into the mattress, seeking more sensation. 

“How do you want to finish?” Draco asked, becoming suddenly very aware of his own aching erection. Squeezing it for some relief. 

Harry moaned and pushed back again. “ _More_ — I need more— anything— _you_ —” 

Draco removed his thumb and inserted a finger, pushed it in smoothly to the second knuckle and pressed down, Harry’s wrecked voice groaning out one long, low note. 

Draco had to stifle his own moan. Harry’s reactions to him were nearly unbearably good. The sounds reverberated in Draco’s chest, making him shudder, falter his movements. 

“Up— up on your knees, Harry—” He panted urgently, pulling at Harry’s hips. Harry did so on unsteady legs, the side of his face still pressed into the pillow, huffing in desperation. 

“Draco— fuck, just— _please_ —” He was rambling, his mouth slack, eyes closed, his back swayed. 

Draco reached around to grab Harry’s cock, hanging heavy between his legs, and pressed his own between Harry’s cheeks. Harry nearly sobbing with relief, a half hysterical laugh at the new sensation, the new contact. Draco stroked Harry in time with the movements of his own hips him. Harry pushed himself up on his elbows to give Draco more room to manoeuvre his hand over his cock. Pushing himself back in time with Draco’s thrusts. Together they moved in an exceedingly frantic manner. Racing to the end. 

Draco’s throat was dry, panting hard as he was. He was murmuring an endless string of endearments as he gripped Harry’s hip with one hand and jerked him off with the other. His own cock pressed tightly up against Harry’s slicked crease, gliding across his hole, over and over again. 

Harry’s body tensed under him, a breathy string of _fuck fuck fuck fuck_ — spilling from him as his dick throbbed in Draco’s hand and he came with a strangled cry, incoherent and disjointed words of praise being mumbled against the pillow as he slumped forward, breathing hard, Draco stroking him through it. 

Draco gripped Harry’s hips with bruising fingers as his own orgasm ripped through him. With nothing on his mind but the overwhelming feeling of belonging as he rode out the waves of pleasure that crashed through him, Harry muttering things to him he couldn’t quite decipher. 

Both still breathing hard, legs still shaking, Draco helped manoeuvre Harry into a more comfortable position. They rolled onto their sides facing one another, Draco feeling overwhelmed by the amount of love he had inside of him. Wanting to know if it was good for Harry, if he felt the same. 

As if hearing Draco’s thoughts, Harry’s cracked voice broke the silence, his breathing having finally evened out, wandlessly cleaning them both. 

“Fucking hell, Draco—” He sighed roughly, smiling an exhausted but pleased smile, reaching out and resting a hand on the side of Draco’s neck, bringing their foreheads together. 

“Was that okay?” Draco asked, his eyes closed, feeling doubt sneak back in after reality settled around them.

Harry sputtered and snorted at the same time. “Was that— are you— fuck— _Yes,_ Draco— That was more than fucking _okay—_ ”

Draco snorted as well. His eyes were still closed, the shakiness in his limbs finally calming. He could feel Harry’s hand on his neck jostling him to attention. 

When he opened his eyes he felt breathless, his stomach bottomless, in the face of the look Harry was bestowing on him. It was a mingled look of reverence and pride, of love and adoration, of worshipful fascination, of the undeniable pull between them. Harry’s eyes shining at him in the dark. 

Harry pulled Draco to him, wrapping his arms around him and kissed him softly, his tongue gentling brushing Draco’s bottom lip. 

“It was perfect.” Harry whispered when he pulled back. “This whole day has been perfect.”

Draco fell asleep against Harry’s chest, the constant thrum of his heart under Draco’s ear, Harry’s hand carding his hair as he held Draco to him with strong arms. He could hear the soft snorts of thestrals just outside the window. The call of owls in the forest beyond. Snow was falling gently in the hollow, a golden web of magic cradling their home as they drifted towards sleep in the dark hours before dawn. 

  



End file.
